Pictures of You
by The Profane Angel
Summary: Jack and Claire simply live, move through life as we all know it, with its ebb and flow, its routine and surprises, from Paul Sandig to Diana Hawthorne. Written as a gift for Elisabeth Carmichael. Rated M for language and sexuality.


A/N: For Elisabeth Carmichael, Merry Christmas. While a self-contained story, it ends with the opening for yet another examination of life as we all know it, with its ebb and flow, the expected and the surprising. Jack and Claire live their lives, move from the existential crisis of conscience evoked by Paul Sandig to Jack's own crisis with Diana Hawthorne. Dialogue is deliberately not duplicated precisely as written by the original writers. Hope you enjoy it, Lis! (Don't own L&O, Dick Wolf and NBC do, and all those legal niceties giving credit where credit is due)

"Claire?"

Claire Kincaid jerked, startled. She'd been staring at the spaghetti sauce, wooden spoon gripped in her right fist, and for a moment she was confused. Recovering, she stirred the sauce and covered it, put the spoon in its rest on the stovetop, and turned to Jack. "Yeah?" She opened the refrigerator and grabbed a wine bottle.

Jack stepped closer and took the bottle from her. As he dug the corkscrew out of the clutter in the tool drawer, he said "I told you, this is hard enough without your silent accusations." He set the bottle on the counter and worked the screw into the cork.

She got wine glasses out of the cabinet and set them on the counter. "How do you live with it, Jack?" She knelt in front of a cupboard, searching for the spaghetti pot, avoiding eye contact with him.

He sighed. She heard liquid pouring into a glass, and she closed her hand on the handle of her pasta pot. Then she felt him next to her, and she rose with the pot in both hands, bumping him. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to look at him. "I live with it by knowing it's the law, it's the prescribed penalty for killing a cop. A witness," he hastily added, for Paul Sandig had been sentenced to death for that charge and not a cop killing. He stared at her, trying to lock her eyes into his intense gaze. Her shoulders were rigid under his hands, and he gently massaged them, then he pulled her into his arms, taking the pot away with one smooth move. Her arms stayed by her side. Her face was buried in his shirt, she inhaled his familiar scent, felt his breathing and his hands rubbing her back. Against her will, her muscles responded, the tension seeped from her shoulders.

It isn't fair, she thought, that her body responded to his no matter her mental state. His physical presence powerfully affected her, always had, and she suspected he was manipulating that fact to his advantage. She pulled away and met his gaze. His eyes, a deep brown, seemed darker, melted chocolate pouring love over her bruised heart. She didn't see a glimmer of acknowledgement, a hint of manipulation, and she drew a deep breath, trying to clear her head. "The quality of mercy is not strained," she whispered, letting her forehead fall to his chest as he pulled her close again.

"Did he show mercy?" Jack whispered, his hand moving up and down her spine.

"It's barbaric, Jack." The anguish in her voice was real. His hand stopped and then cupped the back of her head. Despite her efforts, tears escaped and wet his shirt. She knew he felt them, he kissed the top of her head. "A civilized society does not kill its citizens."

He continued to hold her, his regular breathing like a rocking chair, rhythmically soothing her troubled soul. She was grateful for his silence, even for his embrace, never had she felt so inarticulate on any subject. Her arms moved tentatively around his waist, but she could not bring herself to hold him tightly.

She wasn't sure how long they stood like that. Jack finally turned her and, his arm still around her, walked her to the couch. They sat together, Jack working his left leg around and between her body and the back of the couch. He then pulled her against him, folding his hands over her flat stomach. She drew her knees up as she let her back rest against his chest. Then she picked up his right hand, holding it in hers, studying it. She rubbed his signet ring, turning it, then stroked his fingers, one at a time. She knew this hand as well as she knew her own, knew all the things it was capable of, from giving ecstatic pleasure to functional repair. It signed legal papers, its quick movement across a dotted line ensuring someone's life was about to become a study in misery. It threw balls, shifted gears, poured drinks. It was capable of inflicting injury, though she'd never seen it curled in anger, seen it strike something or someone. She turned it over and traced the lines in his palm, trying to read his soul, not his future or his past. Then she curled the fingers in on the palm and held his loose fist in her hands. Jack kissed the back of her head, stroked her hair with his free hand, squeezed her left shoulder ever so gently.

"The sauce," she said, sitting up.

"I turned it off," he said, holding her in place.

She extended her legs, and Jack wrapped his around them, rubbing her foot with his. They both wore thick white crew socks, yet she felt his skin on hers, impossible as that was. She let her hands rest on his. Another manifestation, she thought, of his body's effect on hers, some chemical reaction, she rationalized. No one's presence had ever affected her like Jack's, and it was scary at times. She realized her shoulders were tense again, and she drew a deep breath, willing herself to relax. She loved this man, trusted him, yet he sometimes baffled her. Angered her. And when he did, all he had to do was get close and her body betrayed her. She eased her head so his chin rested on it and let her elbows relax and lie on his sides. She marveled again at how easily her body fitted itself to his, and wondered if he realized it, too.

She soon felt at ease, almost drowsy. His arms around her were strong, protective, secure, and Claire let go, relaxing completely in the confines of his arms and legs. He sensed it, he kissed her head again, reached for and stroked her hair. "I can't imagine what it's like," she said, "knowing your life is going to end at a precise moment in time. That time will stop forever for you, that you will simply cease to be."

"It's going to take years, Claire, you know that." His voice, his real voice as she sometimes thought of it, was soft and reassuring, so different from his trial voice. "The law may change again in the interim. In the meantime, we did our jobs, we upheld the law of New York State, got justice for Bobby Cross." He curled strands of her hair behind her ear. "His life ended at a precise moment in time. He looked at the barrel of a gun and knew it was ending." He kept stroking her ear. "I know how you feel about the issue, but it's the correct thing to do."

She noticed he didn't say "right thing" and felt a flash of gratitude for that glimmer of sensitivity. They'd argued for weeks about it, about this first death penalty case since capital punishment was reinstated, arguments that ended badly or patched, depending on how wounding the other had been. They rarely tried to hurt one another, but in the heat of argument, some words escaped, forever out there, unable to be retrieved. And through it all, neither had thought of leaving the other for more than a night. She realized then that she truly loved Jack. She wouldn't endure these arguments from anyone else, she'd cut her losses and move on. And Jack, who was not known for long term relationships, must feel the same, for he never hinted at a more permanent separation. He was usually the one who made the first move after the argument crested and broke, moved toward reconciliation as argumentative passion receded. It was usually his footprints in the wet sand of anger and opposing points of view, coming toward her. The anti-Jack. That thought made her smile.

"Want that glass of wine?" she asked, sitting up unopposed. She turned to look at him.

He smiled lazily, those eyes warm with humor and good will. "Oh yeah," he said.

She got up, walking into the kitchen. She glanced at the clock in the stove, it was early for them, seven-thirty. Plenty of time, she thought, picking up the glasses. Jack remained sprawled on the couch, in cotton drawstring pants and a white New York Giants football jersey, at ease in her apartment, on her couch. She smiled as she approached. She never imagined Jack McCoy in repose way back when, when she'd see him in the halls or jogging up the courthouse steps. He was so energetic, and compared to Ben Stone, he was a positive force of energy. Ben was formal, stiff at times. Jack was a force of nature, at ease in his tall, athletic body. She thought of him as perpetual motion whenever she did think of him, and the thought of him undressed and still never crossed her busy brain.

"Here," she said, offering the wine glass in her left hand.

"Thanks." He took it, straightening up a little. She eased back between his legs, letting her head rest on his shoulder. He sipped his wine at the same time she did, God, she thought, we even move in synch. So how can we be so diametrically opposed on this issue? And are there other issues out there to trap us in the minefield of argument and recrimination? "Claire?"

"Hmm?" She tilted her head back, looking up at him.

He smiled. "I love you."

She laughed. "Where did that come from?"

He sipped his wine, then stroked her hair with his other hand. "I guess I should say my heart." A teasing smile, a stroke of her ear, and then he leaned over her to put his wine glass on the coffee table. He took hers, too. "It's true." He turned her on the couch and kissed her. Then he pressed his lips to her forehead, his hand on the back of her head. "It's so true, Claire."

"I love you, too." She leaned back and met his eyes, her fingers coming up to trace the lines and planes of his face, the contours of his lips. "And it scares me sometimes. I feel like I've given up part of myself, given it away."

He smiled, a sweet smile. "Isn't that what love is? Giving away part of yourself? Believe me, it scares the hell out of me, too. Because I don't know where it goes, but I know I trust you to keep it safe."

She eased down a little, into the crook of his arm, knowing he wouldn't let her tumble to the floor. She looked up at him, smiled, inviting him to continue. His hand found the hem of her tee shirt, slipped under it, traveled up her abs to her stomach and then her breast. He leaned down to kiss her as that hand, that marvel of engineering and construction, released the front clasp of her bra and covered her breast. She sensed their weight and precarious position on the edge of the couch was giving way, but before she could warn him, he moved her firmly onto the couch with one swift move, his body now above hers, his crotch pressing into hers.

"Should I say something about the earth moving?" he teased.

She reached up and stroked his ear, grinning, then her hand went to the back of his head and she pulled it toward hers. Their lips met, his tongue moved with hers, his thumb rubbed her nipple. She pushed his tee shirt up, pushed her hands under it, her fingertips and nails searching for and finding his nipples. She knew exactly how to send Jack into overdrive, and she played him like a violin.

"The hell with foreplay," he muttered, rising to his knees. Within seconds, both pairs of cotton pants and underwear were on the floor, the coffee table, and Jack was now playing her. Like a maestro.

"Oh sweet Jesus," she screamed, her nails digging into his back, her body convulsing with pleasure. "Oh God!" Her knees dug into his sides as her nails dug trenches in his back.

"Mother of God," he gasped as his pleasure caught up with hers and he dropped to her writhing body. Soaked in sweat, they rode the receding waves until they stilled. A car horn from the street jolted them back to the reality of a narrow couch and bodies glued together by drying sweat and other fluids. "Jesus," he whispered as he got up, carefully, aware of the gush of fluids that erupted as he separated from her. He smiled as he looked around for something, anything, to give her, finally shrugging as he offered his drawstring pants.

She took them, and as she cleaned up as best she could, said "Glad I did laundry last night." She tossed the pants to the floor and sat up. "We really should plan better."

"Or stash towels under the couch." He pulled his shorts up.

"Yeah, right." Claire stood. "So much for afterglow," she teased. "I'm getting in the shower. Will you turn the heat on low under the sauce? And start water for the pasta?"

He pulled his tee shirt over his head. "Why do you always get the shower first?" he grumbled good naturedly, tossing the wet tee shirt on his soiled pants.

"Because there's less of me to wash?" She yanked her tee shirt off and picked up his discarded clothes. "Back in a few," she said.

He went in the kitchen. Adjusting the flame under the sauce, he then gave it a good stir, banged the wooden spoon against the pot rim, and covered it. He filled the pasta pot, then eased the colander insert into the water and hoisted it onto the stove. He turned the heat to high, covered the pot, and stretched. He thought he might have pulled a muscle; he massaged it as best he could, then bent to touch his toes.

Dinner going, he walked into the bedroom and opened his drawer in the dresser. He collected clean underwear, a fresh pair of drawstring pants and another tee shirt, then balanced on one foot while peeling off the sock on the other. He then walked to the bathroom and opened the door.

Claire was drying off, her wet hair hastily combed back and away from her face. She looked up as he stepped in, then resumed drying the leg propped on the toilet lid. Damp and looking like her sixteenth birthday was a week ago, she still took him by surprise with the emotions she evoked in his heart. Innocence, vulnerability, guilelessness - the second strongest emotion she stirred was protectiveness, and he stopped her, taking the towel and pulling her to him. He held her for a moment, then released her, smiling shyly. She cocked her head and raised her eyebrows.

He shrugged. "Caught in the moment," he said, and turned the shower on to cover his exposure. He stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain, hiding his vulnerability for the moment. He knew his emotions were safe with her, but he still felt a certain reservation about revealing them. He'd once shown vulnerability to Diana Hawthorne, and she never let him forget it, using it as weapon as their relationship deteriorated . Bitch, he thought, soaping, remembering Diana with a cold shudder despite the hot water. The shower curtain fluttered as Claire opened and closed the bathroom door, he could smell her lotion despite his soap and the wet heat of the enclosed space. Vanilla bean, he thought, and smiled before turning his face to the pulsing shower stream.

Claire stirred the sauce, then got a garlic head from the small wire basket hanging to the left of the stove. She quickly peeled and pressed two cloves into a small stainless steel mixing bowl, then carefully unwrapped and dumped the softened stick of butter on top of the shredded garlic. Mixing with a fork, she was careful to incorporate the garlic evenly throughout the mixture, then she set it aside. She made quick work of the loaf of French bread, slicing it into rounds before buttering it with the mixture and then reassembling the loaf and wrapping it in foil. She turned the oven on, then went for her wine.

Jack ambled in just as she sipped. He picked up his own glass and saluted her with it before sipping. Then he eased down on the couch, careful to avoid the damp area, and Claire noticed and laughed. She shook her head at his phony innocent look and went back to the kitchen. When Jack came in to refill his wine glass, he glanced over her shoulder at the sauce, now filling the apartment with a rich aroma, and nodded as Claire stirred it.

He put his glass on the counter and opened the silverware drawer. He deftly collected knives and forks and even spoons as a gesture to the properly brought up Claire, then set the little table under the window. He positioned the plates and napkins, then retrieved his wine. Leaning against a counter, he watched her cook, loving the way her face flushed, the tip of her tongue visible between her teeth, lost in the art she loved and rarely practiced. Looking at her, he thought again of the epitaph he wanted: He Was a Lucky Bastard and He Knew It.

They ate, unusually quiet, but it was a companionable silence, the moat around the huge issue that would always stand between them. Jack would gladly retreat into this contented silence rather than wound Claire, for the issue, the argument, was not one either of them could win. Paul Sandig had ruined several lives, and Jack felt he and Claire were the collateral damage in his one man explosion of death and destruction. This is decompression, Jack thought, this is how we'll cope now and in the future. It worked, and that was what mattered to him, despite the politically correct view that everything had to be talked to death in the name of health. And when he curled around Claire later that night, loosely holding her as they drifted into sleep, he was content to be politically incorrect. For him, it was a badge of honor. He could live with it.

XX

They arrived at the office early, the halls were deserted. Sunlight streamed through windows and spilled out open office doors, a rare sight as office doors were usually closed here. They signed in, chatting with Graham, who had a new picture of his grandson to show. Claire peeled off from Jack at the juncture of their offices, going into hers, although calling it an office was a generous description. She hung her purse and coat, then wandered to the coffee station. Graham had coffee ready, and as she poured two cups, she wanted to remember to thank him. She carried the coffee to Jack's office, leaving the door open.

"Did we beat Adam in?" she asked, surprised at the quiet.

"Looks that way." Jack was knotting his tie and he paused for a quick glance through the connecting door. "Maybe not, the door's closed." He tugged on the knot. "Thanks," he said, touching his collar before picking up his coffee. He sat behind his desk and leaned back in his chair. "I almost feel lost, there's nothing on my desk."

Claire smiled. "For like five minutes, maybe." She sat on the couch and crossed her legs, then tasted the coffee. It was good. "You can count on the gods of anarchy to deliver another sucker punch before eight."

Jack glanced at the clock. It was quarter of eight. "God I hope not." He felt like he should be doing something, but this absence of work and noise was novel. He smiled at Claire, sitting on the leather couch with her long legs crossed and her coffee cup pressed to her bottom lip. Her eyes were closed, as if this was some religious ritual, and he felt like a voyeur. Then her eyes opened and focused on him.

"What," she said, then sipped.

"Nothing." He looked at the empty Inbox, then back at the clock. He was about to suggest they duck out and have breakfast when he heard the door on Adam's side of the corridor open. "Heads up," he said.

Adam Schiff walked in, looking from Jack to Claire and back to Jack suspiciously, his nose wrinkled and lips down turned, as if Jack recently released an SBD. "Are you taking a vacation day?"

"As you can see, my Inbox is empty. What God hath wrought let no district attorney turn asunder."

"Smartass," Adam grumbled. "So you and Ms. Kincaid are politely waiting for someone to drop something to do on your desk?"

People walked past Jack's office, snippets of conversation filtered into the room as the office came alive. He smiled broadly, Adam wasn't going to pee on Jack's good mood. "We are," he said. "Unless, of course, you have something else in mind."

"You'd actually _do_ what I told you to? What did Ms. Kincaid put in your coffee?"

"Mellow pills," Jack offered. "You should try one sometime."

"Mellow Yellow, I still remember the words." Adam brushed an imaginary fly from his face. "I have an appeals brief you can review, it's young Cutter's first one."

"Who's Cutter?"

"Some fast burner in narcotics, no, sex crimes, one of the allegedly victimless crimes units we maintain." Adam's expression soured again. "Review it, tear it apart, and then do it again until he has it right. Ms. Kincaid can go see what's going on in arraignments, scout the rising talent." Adam put his hand on his stomach, and Jack realized he wasn't feeling well. He hoped it wasn't ulcers again. Jack finished his coffee and stood, nodding at Claire as he followed Adam out.

Claire finished her coffee and dropped the cup in the trash before walking across the hall to her office. She gathered her coat and purse, then stopped by Tim's desk to tell him where she was going. She hated watching arraignments, watching the younger attorneys jockey for cases and notice, each one hoping the case they caught would be the one to draw the attention of Adam Schiff, or, more realistically, Jack McCoy or another of the EADAs. She would be spotted the second she walked into the courtroom, and she wasn't sure her ass could take that much kissing. Still, she didn't feel like jumping into another case so close on the heels of Sandig's sentencing phase. Hard to believe that was three days ago, she thought, as she left Hogan Place for the courthouse. She buttoned her coat against the wind, then jammed her hands in her pockets, preferring to walk rather than endure the stop and go of city traffic. Paul Sandig, she thought, Jack called him the poster boy for capital punishment. How could such a good looking, educated, articulate man turn from Republican stalwart to cop killer? Shallow thinking, she chided, appearances mean nothing. She felt her good spirits sink as she thought about Sandig and the issue of judicial murder. Her name would always be linked to him, to this case, in smaller type and under John J. McCoy's, but be there it would, leaving the wider world to think she supported capital punishment.

Climbing the courthouse steps, she again thought of leaving the office. She didn't feel she could prosecute capital cases, despite Jack's rationalizations. She didn't have to decide today, she insisted, pulling the heavy door and stepping into the whirlwind of a day in the courts of the city of New York. She passed through security and walked toward arraignment, unbuttoning her coat as she walked. As expected, the prosecutorial side of the aisle fell silent by rows as heads turned in ascending order to the front. She slipped into a back row, folding her coat in half and putting it beside her. She sat up straight, her eyes focused on the activity at the front of the bar. She ignored the stares and whispers of her colleagues. Hands folded in her lap, she pressed her lips together and watched.

They were routine cases, nothing that would rise out the pool and land on Jack's desk. She stayed for an hour, then gathered her things and slipped out, feeling it was wasted time. She returned to her office, hung her coat and purse, then wandered into Jack's office to see if she missed anything on her useless reconnaissance. He was at his desk, head bent over a file, and in the few seconds it took for him to sense her, she watched him as if he was a stranger. A handsome man, an intense man, as complicated as they come, she thought, that intensity telegraphed by his tapping fingers, his absorption in the file. Then his head came up and a smile broke across his face, reaching his eyes. He was as happy to see her as if she'd been gone for a month instead of an hour. He stood. She walked in and sat in the chair beside his desk, her personal space, close enough for intimacy yet formal enough to preclude whispers and stares.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Oh." He looked down. "We just caught a nightmare." He pushed the folder across his desk. She scanned it. The police report, photos, coroner's reports, the standard fodder of a case file. She looked up and met Jack's steady gaze. "I have to present it to Adam in an hour. I'm waiting for Briscoe to come over and fill in the blanks." He stretched, his arms extended fully above his head and his back arching, then his hands landed palms down on the desk. "So how was arraignment?"

"Boring." She picked up the initial police report. Leslie Harlan, a murder-robbery suspect arrested in a botched hold up with her lover, who was killed by the store owner. She claimed she was a kidnap victim and unwilling participant in a string of robberies and homicides. Basic background checks confirmed her kidnap story, but she appeared to be a willing participant in Leon Trapp's violent spree. Claire looked up. "Shades of Patty Hearst."

He nodded. "A case that left too many unanswered questions. Still, a jury determined Hearst switched sides and convicted her."

Claire nodded. "They convicted her for appearing to betray her class and the social contract more than anything else. If her kidnappers had killed her, she'd be viewed in an entirely different light. Her real crime was surviving by whatever means were at hand."

Jack smiled. "And I thought she was convicted because she helped rob a bank, not to mention unleashing a barrage of automatic weapons fire at the cops."

Claire shrugged. "Who knows what anyone would do after being locked in a closet for fifty-seven days, subjected to beatings, rape, and total humiliation. I don't know what I'd do except to try to survive by any means possible. Hearst was nineteen when she was kidnapped, how old is Harlan?" She glanced down at the file. "Not much older." She pushed the file back across the desk. "So what are you going to file?"

"Murder two."

"Jack. C'mon."

He glanced at his watch. "Where the hell is Briscoe? C'mon where, Claire? If the girl can establish some compelling justification, I'll certainly consider reducing the charges." He looked at the door as Lennie Briscoe knocked on it, then waved him in. Lennie always looked uncomfortable in Jack's office, Claire thought, wondering if it was from personal animosity or just a sense of inadequacy in the face of all this well educated firepower. He sat in the straight-backed chair in front of Jack's desk, then opened a little notebook.

"Counselors," he said, acknowledging Jack with a nod and a smile for Claire. "Our Ms. Harlan was definitely kidnapped, the Connecticut state police just recovered Trapp's cousin's body as per her information. We can put her at the scene in every one of these robbery-homicides. We're running her fingerprints now, there's probably a lot more where these came from. I'd say we have her dead to rights."

"And if she was somehow an unwilling participant?" Claire leaned forward, her elbows resting on Jack's desk.

"She had options," Lennie said. "She could have shot him, for one. She could have slipped away when he slept. She could have run when he left her alone. She did none of the above. My position is she was a willing participant."

"The bored rich girl walking on the wild side," Jack said. "Should I break into Hall and Oates?"

Lennie grinned. "That's Patty Hearst's anthem." He closed his notebook and stood. "If there's nothing else, Simmons in narcotics wants me. We picked up one of his most wanted perps this morning."

"Keeping you on the run, Lennie?" Claire smiled.

"I'm never bored," Lennie said. "As Gilda Radner said, it's always something."

Jack stood, too, picking up the file. "I prefer 'Jane you ignorant slut' as my favorite SNL tag line." He held the slender file in his left hand. "Claire? Adam awaits."

She stood. "Thanks, Lennie."

"Don't mention it," he said. Tucking his notebook into his jacket's inner pocket, he nodded and left the rarified air of the Executive Assistant District Attorney's office. Claire absently brushed off her clothes, then walked across the hall with Jack. Adam was at his desk, a sandwich in hand as he read from a weighty law text. He looked up as they came in and put his sandwich aside. He leaned back in his chair and waited.

Jack explained the outlines of the case, and Adam immediately jumped on the Hearst parallels. Jack brushed them away by commenting on the conviction.

"That was then," Adam said. "Society's changed. We can't be sure how a jury will view this one. Who's her lawyer?"

Jack opened the file and lifted a page attached to the left side. "Danielle Melnick," he said.

"Daddy's opened his checkbook," Adam observed. "See her, see if she's willing to deal. And take extenuating circumstances into consideration, Jack."

Jack nodded, glancing at Claire. That was her department, he thought. Still, Adam was the boss, so Jack would hear Danielle out, see what common ground existed. He and Claire went back to his office and she called Melnick's office, leaving a message with the secretary asking Danielle to call back. She then retired to her office to research Leslie Harlan's background, the facts surrounding her kidnapping, and the lengthy criminal career of Leon Trapp.

She'd been bent over her computer for an hour when her phone rang. She got it on the second ring. "Kincaid."

"Claire, Danielle Melnick. We should meet."

"Our thoughts exactly," Claire said. She knew Ms. Melnick by reputation only, Jack was the one who knew her, who'd battled her before. She knew they were friends of long standing, and wondered why Melnick called her instead of Jack.

"Can you guys be at the prison at two?"

Claire looked at her watch, it was almost lunchtime. "I think so. Let me check with Jack, hang on a minute." She put Danielle on hold, then pressed the button for Jack's office. "Jack, I have Danielle Melnick on the phone. She wants to meet at Singer at two, that OK with you?"

"Yeah, sure."

"OK." She broke the connection and punched the hold button. "Ms. Melnick, two o'clock will be fine."

"Bring your compassion," Danielle said, dryly, before adding, "I'm counting on your influence with Jack to see justice truly done in this case."

What the hell, Claire thought, but she opted to ignore the comment. "We'll see you then. Thank you for returning my call." She hung up, then stood. She crossed the hall to Jack's office and closed the door behind her. She sat on the couch, then repeated Melnick's curious remark.

Jack grinned and shook his head. "That's Danielle. Not much gets by her." He leaned back and locked his hands behind his head. "We ran into her a couple of months ago, at Romalotti's. You don't remember?" Claire shook her head. "Short, mouthy, but smart as a whip. She was letting you know she knows about us." His smile teased. "I've known Danielle a long time, she knows where all my bodies are buried."

Claire's smile teased in return. "Maybe I should cultivate her acquaintance."

"Perish the thought," Jack replied. "You hungry? I am."

"Yes." She stood when he did, then her hand went to her lower back as a dull ache kicked in. Man, she thought. "Let me get my purse." She left him long enough to get her coat and purse, rummaging through her bag in search of aspirin. Finding the small tin, she opened it, tipped two into her mouth, and dry-swallowed them. Then she joined Jack at the corridor junction and they walked to the elevator. When the doors closed and they were alone for a few seconds, Jack put his arm across her shoulders and pressed her close, quickly kissing the side of her head. His arm dropped as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, admitting two attorneys from narcotics. They acknowledged their superior and his assistant, and Claire wondered if she was imagining the knowing looks they exchanged as they rode in silence with the power pair to the ground floor.

Jack seemed quite merry as they emerged onto the street. It was overcast now, and the wind had picked up, it smelled of rain. Jack led her to a favorite haunt of theirs, a quiet, well appointed restaurant two blocks away, too pricey for the average ADA and thus a safe place for a quiet, intimate lunch. Settled at a table in the back, shielded by a large plant blocking the view from the wide paned windows, Jack smiled at her over the menu.

"Why are you so happy?" she asked.

"Anticipating a duel with Danielle," he said. "It's always fun. You'll enjoy it."

"I'm not so sure," she said, and winced as her back sent signals that a horse just kicked her. She waved away the concern on Jack's face, the raised eyebrows, and picked up her menu. "I don't care much for people who are overly familiar." She reached for her purse and got two more aspirin. "What makes her think I have any undue influence on you?"

His grin was easy. "You're my assistant?"

She swallowed the aspirin, chasing them with the water the waiter poured when they were seated. She rolled her eyes. "Lovely recommendation."

He reached over and put his hand on hers. "Don't take it personally. She's testing you. Danielle and I are good friends, I know she'd go to the mat for me as I would for her. She's just trying to get a sense of your worthiness where I'm concerned." He smiled, teasing her at the same time he reassured her.

"Does she vet all your assistants?"

"At some point." His face grew serious, a sharp contrast to his earlier humor. "She was there when I got divorced. As my sounding board." His fingers stroked the back of her hand. "She's seen me at my most devastated, though I wouldn't admit that to anyone else. Losing Rebecca was hard. And I know my secrets are safe with her. So, yes, in a sense, she checks out anyone I date more than a couple of times. If she doesn't like the woman in question, I'll get an invitation to lunch."

"Maybe I should screen your calls from now on," Claire said, locking her pinky finger over his, then caressing his palm with the back of her index finger. She felt the jolt of electricity as her message was conveyed and processed, he quickly turned her hand and interlaced his fingers with hers. Their thumbs rubbed together, communicating promise and desire. Then the waiter arrived and they broke the handhold.

Jack ordered a steak sandwich, Claire opted for the grilled chicken salad. Neither was hungry for food now, but allowed it to serve as a substitute for more primal appetites. The tension between them grew, Claire never stopped marveling at the power his presence had over her, the sheer physical need he evoked just by touching her. She could barely meet his gaze yet she couldn't help looking at him, wanting him, wishing they'd gone home for lunch. The tension arced, bounced between them, seeking grounding and not finding it, thus redoubling its efforts.

"Jack," she whispered, lest her voice betray her intense need.

"I know," he said, and then he broke the handhold as the waiter approached, bearing their lunch on a tray and serving it skillfully. "Eat fast," he said, choking on his words, "very fast."

They should be beyond this, she thought, they were beyond it most of the time, but such was their attraction that it sometimes snuck up on them and pounced. It was as insistently vicious as any mugging, and they knew how miserable, how long and torturous the afternoon would be if they denied this need. They ate silently, swiftly, unable to down more than perhaps a third of their portions. Then Jack signaled for the check. The waiter, who'd been blindsided by the tension emanating from his well dressed, decorous table two patrons, brought it at once. Jack glanced at the total, fourteen bucks, and he tossed a twenty on top of the bill and closed the holder as he pushed away from the table. He and Claire managed to exit with appropriate decorum, and then he took her elbow as they stood on the street. He looked at her, questioning her with his eyes and finding his answer. His arm shot up and a taxi hit its brakes in front of them.

His apartment was seven minutes away on a good day. He held her hand, as if anchoring himself to this god-awful compulsion, this need for her, lest he explode in a cloud of blood and semen, before he choked on his thickening throat. Another four minutes and they were in his apartment, ripping off their clothes as if this was the first time. He backed her onto the couch, there was no time for niceties, they were possessed by a lust so powerful and startling that they had no thought for anything else. It didn't take long. It wasn't making love, after all, it was answering an instinctual call that brooked no disobedience.

"Oh God," he whispered, drenched in sweat, his face buried in her hair. She felt boneless beneath him, her breathing still ragged. Her fingers stroked his wet back, her legs kept him securely within as they recovered.

"Sweet Jesus," she muttered, her heart still pounding. "You'd think we'd be past this by now."

"I don't ever want to be past this," he said, lifting his head to look down into her eyes.

Her hand left his back and settled on his cheek, her thumb on his chin. She smiled. "No, I suppose not."

He eased off her, careful not to hurt her with his much larger, heavier body. He'd learned to do that early on, Claire would go absolutely limp with satiation, unable to move or guard against a knee, an elbow, a pubic bone. A couple of accidental assaults later, he took great care getting up. "We better shower," he said, looking at his watch. "If we hurry, we can go straight to Singer and make our appointment on time."

She followed him into the bathroom. They showered together, washing each other's backs, stripping themselves of any vestige of passion. Dry, Claire repaired her makeup and then dressed. Jack assured her she looked cool and collected, his smile teasing as he said no one would guess that under that black power suit lurked the heart of the legendary Magdalene. She in turn swore that he looked like an old man whose only thoughts were for legal vengeance cloaked as justice.

"Old my ass," Jack said, as they left his apartment.

They took a cab to the Rose M. Singer facility for women and checked in. That process took a few minutes, but then they were escorted to the conference room, visitor tags hanging from their coats and briefcases swinging from their hands. They'd just settled in uncomfortable chairs when Danielle came in with Leslie Harlan.

Leslie was a pretty girl, with shoulder length light brown hair and an odd intensity in her eyes. She seemed to hide behind Danielle, staring down at the table with her hands clutched in her lap.

"Claire," Danielle said. "Jack. Tell me, were you absent on the first day of law school? You know, when they explain the difference between the criminal and the victim."

"I have no doubt that Ms. Harlan was a kidnap victim," Jack said. "And if Mr. Trapp was alive, we'd gladly prosecute him for his crimes." He focused on the young woman sitting on the opposite side of the table. "But she was a participant in latter crimes," he began.

"Under duress," Danielle interjected. "She was kidnapped, beaten, raped. Choice was taken away from her."

"That's an affirmative defense. She'll have to see our shrink."

"Fine," Danielle said. "But you could be a human being and save us all the trouble."

At Danielle's signal, Leslie told her story, of being kidnapped and held for ransom, which Leon's cousin kept for his own purposes. That led to Leon blowing his cousin's head off in front of her. She told of being beaten, of being tied to a bed and repeatedly raped. She described seeing the newspaper stories, which indicated her parents thought she was dead. She told them that Leon promised to track her down and kill her and her parents if she escaped, that she absolutely believed him. The only thing settled by this meeting was the affirmative defense and a meeting with Elizabeth Olivet. Claire left feeling dissatisfied, as if she'd missed something important.

She and Jack returned via taxi to Hogan Place. As they reviewed notes and put in a call to Liz Olivet, Adam came in, watching them for a few seconds.

"I wondered if you'd come back to work," he said, looking from Claire to Jack.

"Lunch," Jack explained, "and then straight to Singer. These things take time, you know."

"Oh I know," Adam said, a note of resignation in his voice. "Make a deal, Jack, before we have the Second Coming of Patty Hearst on our hands."

"Let's see what Liz has to say." He found the text he was looking for and pulled the book off the shelf. "She's seeing Leslie Harlan in the morning."

Adam nodded and left them to it. Jack sighed as he sat behind his desk. Claire looked up from a legal pad, her pen poised just above the lined yellow paper. He met her inquisitive gaze and shrugged. "He's priming for a lecture," he said, softly, his brown eyes locked on hers.

"I thought we were being discreet," she said, a tremor in her voice. "If he brings Joel up…"

"Shh." Jack loosened his tie knot. "He won't. He knows you were manipulated by that bastard. Now me, on the other hand…" He put his hand on his forehead. "With me, I've been warned. I have no excuse." His hand dropped away, and Claire saw pain, real pain, in his eyes. Alarmed, she rose and approached.

"Jack? Migraine?"

He nodded. "Pull the blinds?"

She did so, shrouding the office in twilight reinforced by the heavy overcast skies. "Do you need to lie down?"

He nodded, and she helped him to the couch, guiding his shoulders as he eased down on butter soft leather. She reached for his tie knot and pulled, then draped the ribbons of tasteful color down his chest. She unbuttoned his collar, freeing his neck. His eyes were closed, but he draped his forearm over them nonetheless. Claire had witnessed three of his migraines in the time they'd been lovers, she recognized the signals of an especially bad one. She knew if she didn't get him home soon, he might not go home. She didn't want him spending an agonizing night on this couch, in this place that would only remind him of how much he had to do, thus compounding the pain. She left him lying on his back, groaning softly, and walked to Adam's office. She knocked.

"Come in," Adam called.

Claire opened the heavy door and advanced on the older man behind the big desk. He watched her, a neutral expression on his lined face, waiting. "Jack has a migraine," she said, "I think it's going to be an especially vicious one." She twisted her left hand in her right. "I'd like to get him home, get him in bed and take care of him."

Adam nodded. He was well acquainted with Jack's migraines, knew they were crippling. He also knew Jack wouldn't take care of himself if left alone, and so lose more time to sick leave. For Jack McCoy to admit illness he had to be really ill. Adam sighed, then rubbed his nose. "Can you get him home by yourself?"

"If we leave now," she said, not at all sure she could. "It's bad, Mr. Schiff."

"I trust your judgment. I'll send young Cutter with you, to help get him in the car, he's up here conferencing with Simone." He reached for the phone and pressed a button. "Get ADA Cutter out of the conference room, I have an errand for him. Thank you." Adam hung up. He looked at Claire thoughtfully. "I think someone who isn't acquainted with you two, who doesn't work on this floor, is best. Let Cutter manhandle him, Ms. Kincaid. Let's keep the gossip to a minimum."

She flushed. "Yes sir."

Someone rapped on Adam's official door. "Come in," he called. The door opened and a tall, skinny young man a couple of years younger than Claire walked in, dressed in an expensive suit and sporting an equally pricey haircut. Ambition was written all over him.

"You wanted me, Mr. Schiff?" Cutter walked up to the desk, acknowledging Claire with an impersonal nod.

"Mr. McCoy has a migraine, a very bad one. I need you to get him to Ms. Kincaid's car as discreetly as possible. He's a big man, you look strong enough to handle him. Do not make a show out of it, if he can walk just hold him up."

"Yes sir," he said. "I've had migraines, bad stuff." He looked at Claire. "Ms. Kincaid?" He inclined his head toward the private entrance connecting this office with Jack's.

"Thank you, Mr. Schiff," Claire said, formally, the gratitude in her eyes belying the cold formal tone that could pass for indifference to Jack's plight. She led the young man into Jack's office. Jack hadn't moved. Claire walked to the couch and knelt, taking the hand attached to the forearm covering his eyes. Jack flinched when she touched him, a bad sign. "Jack. I'm going to get you home. Mr. Cutter is here to help you to the car," she added, hoping he caught her warning.

He moved his arm and looked at her, squinting, but she saw acknowledgment in his eyes. "Help me up?" he asked.

Claire took his arm at the biceps and helped him sit. He stopped then, his feet on the floor, knees wide apart, and hung his head, covering his face with his hands. "God," he whispered, then his hands fell from his face. He looked at the younger man. "Sorry," he croaked.

"Not a problem, Mr. McCoy." Cutter came to his side and gently took his arm in hand, aiding him in standing. "If you feel sick, just say so. Ms. Kincaid, you might want to get the trash can -"

"No," Jack said. "I'm not going to hurl," he added, more gently. "I just want to go home."

Claire got his coat and Cutter helped him into it. She slipped across the hall for her coat and purse, then joined Jack and his aide in the hallway. Cutter had Jack's left elbow in a firm but discreet grip, walking him slowly to the elevators. Claire signed them both out at Graham's station, then stood with them, waiting for the elevator. Jack's head hung, he swayed for a moment, then was still. The elevator seemed to take hours, stopping at every floor, only to have Mr. Cutter warn off the potential riders.

"Where's your car?" he asked when they reached the garage.

"Down here," she said, pointing to the row marked "Executive district attorneys and assistants only." Hers was in the seventh slot. She fished her keys out of her purse and unlocked the passenger door, standing by as Cutter eased Jack into the seat and buckled him in. Then he looked at Claire.

"Ms. Kincaid, how are you going to get him from the car into his apartment? I'll gladly go with you, I can catch a cab back here."

"There's a doorman," she said, weighing the offer.

"He won't be able to leave the door long enough to get Mr. McCoy upstairs and settled into his apartment. I don't mind."

Claire looked at Jack. His head was lolling, his eyes squeezed shut. "OK, thank you." They walked around the rear of the little car and she held the front seat in the forward position while the man squeezed himself into the back seat. Then she got in and cranked the engine.

As she backed out, Cutter leaned forward. "Mike Cutter," he said.

Claire looked at him in the rear view mirror. "Claire Kincaid. I appreciate your help. Jack doesn't like people knowing he has weak spots. When he comes out of this, he may not seem as grateful as he actually is." She started down the spiraling exit road, hoping the corkscrew motion wouldn't upset Jack's stomach.

"I understand. I'm nothing if not discreet."

I certainly hope so, she thought, or your career with the DA's office will come to a screeching halt. Traffic was bad, but she was patient, and they made it to Jack's apartment in fifteen minutes. Mike Cutter got out after Claire and then began the process of extricating the sick man from the front seat. Jack didn't make it easier, every movement seemed to hurt, and he couldn't hold his head up. The doorman offered assistance as he held the door, but Mike assured him it was under control.

In the elevator, Jack's legs buckled. Mike gripped his arm. The elevator opened on Jack's floor and Claire went first, her keys still in her hand. Mike half-dragged, half-supported Jack as he tried to make his body obey his command to walk. Claire inserted the key and held the door open. Mike glanced at the keys in her hand, then at her, as he dragged Jack to the couch. He eased Jack down on his back, then went to work on his shoes. He swiftly unlaced them and yanked them off, dropping them on the floor. Then he undid Jack's belt, button, and fly before looking at Claire.

"Does he have something soft and loose?"

She nodded and shed her coat where she stood before walking into the bedroom. She opened the drawer for sweatpants and old tee shirts and grabbed whatever was on top. A pair of faded gray sweatpants and a dark blue long sleeved tee shirt in hand, she returned to Jack. Mike had him stripped to his shorts, and he took the clothes from Claire. He had Jack dressed in the loose, comfortable clothes in seconds.

"Now," Mike said, "does he have any medication?"

Claire suppressed a flash of annoyance at his assumption that she wouldn't know to give Jack the painkillers prescribed by his physician. She went to the bathroom, opened the medicine chest, and picked up the bottle of Percocet. She opened it and counted the pills, Jack had seven left of a twelve pill prescription. She took the bottle to the living room, gave it to Mike, then went to the kitchen for water. When she was back with a half full juice glass, Mike shook two pills into his palm.

"Mr. McCoy, take your medicine," he said. He slipped the pills into Jack's hand, then the glass. Jack took the medicine, then reclined on his back, covering his face with a throw pillow. "Should I get him to bed?" Mike asked Claire. She nodded. With Mike's assistance, Jack wobbled into the bedroom. Claire pulled the covers back, and then Mike eased him into bed and covered him. Claire pulled the blinds against the late afternoon sun, then they left the bedroom. Claire closed the door and walked Mike into the living room. "Phone?" he asked.

Claire pointed to the cordless phone in its base on Jack's desk. Mike pulled a card out of his wallet, then pressed the number. He looked at Claire as he waited, the phone cradled between his head and shoulder while he put the card back in his wallet. "Address here?" he said. She told him, and he repeated it to the dispatcher, then clicked off and returned the phone to its base.

"Many thanks, Mike," she said, uncomfortable now with what this stranger had witnessed. Then she realized he'd keep his silence, more was at stake than a little gossip around the water cooler. "This is the worst one I've seen."

Mike cracked his knuckles, looking around with open curiosity. It was an unexpected glimpse into Jack McCoy's personal life, and he was surprised at the warmth and uncluttered lines of the apartment. He'd expected controlled chaos, a typical bachelor pad. Then he realized the order here was the product of the lovely woman standing a few feet from him. She had her own key, so the rumors were true, he thought, then knew he could never confirm them, not and keep his job. He looked at Claire again, then thought of the hurting man lying in bed, and thought "lucky bastard." He smiled, as the silence between them grew. "Uh," he said, as he shoved his hands in his pockets, "Would you rather I waited downstairs?"

"Oh. No," she said, quickly, wanting to cover her lapse in manners. "Would you like a Coke or something?" When he shook his head, she said "Thank you, more than I can say. No way would I have gotten him from the car to up here. I've never seen him so incapacitated. He usually bulls his way through the pain until he can get to bed." She shrugged.

"There's a school of thought that holds stress can make a migraine much worse," Mike offered. "I get them every now and then, so I have a working knowledge of the subject."

"We've certainly had our share of stress lately," she said, thinking of Paul Sandig sinking into his chair after the sentence of death was delivered. While it had disturbed her, Jack seemed to take it stride, believing it was the right thing, and conflict was born of those opposing parents. She guessed this was his body's way of demonstrating that he was far more stressed over the conflict between them than he showed.

Mike looked at his watch, wishing he had an excuse to prolong this conversation. Like everyone, he knew who Claire Kincaid was, but he'd never had the opportunity to speak to her. He'd assumed she was a lesser person simply because she was Jack's squeeze, reality crushed that assumption. He cleared his throat. "Stress, the great killer of this century." His car service would arrive any minute, and he couldn't think of anything to say to keep this woman in conversation. "Do you need anything else?"

She smiled. "No, thank you. I know what to do - dark room, medication, quiet. I, we, would appreciate your discretion, however." She pinned him to the spot with clear, direct brown eyes.

"Absolutely," he said. "I can imagine how displeased Mr. McCoy would be if word got out that a migraine knocked him on his ass." He smiled. "I understand the superman complex only too well."

Claire rubbed the back of her neck, recognizing Mike's enchanted stalling for more time. "Yeah, that pretty much sums up Jack, he thinks he has to be Superman, but that does not make me Wonder Woman." She betrayed her exhaustion with a resigned slump of her shoulders.

"I'll go, but if you need anything, you can call me." He pulled one of his cards out his pocket, fiddling with the plastic case after giving her the card. She looked at it, kept it in her hand as she walked him to the door.

"Thank you again, Mike." She opened the door. He smiled and left. She closed and locked the door, then leaned against it, looking at his card again, the standard issue card of the district attorney's office. She had the feeling he wasn't the gossiping type, not that it mattered. Her relationship with Jack was the worst-kept secret in Hogan Place. And she really didn't care, unless it became a formal issue with Adam. I want to leave, she thought, acknowledging it at last. Leave the district attorney's office. With capital punishment back on the books, she was slamming into a wall at full speed, and she couldn't take the pain much longer. She knew Jack would disagree, argue, try to talk her into staying, claim she was indispensable, and maybe she was in some sense. She knew she could reach his conscience, slow him on his quest to wipe out all miscreants. She questioned whether that was worth the damage done to her heart as they struggled with the issue.

She slipped into the darkened bedroom and undressed. She found the drawstring pants and tee shirt she'd worn last night and pulled them on. She got a fresh pair of socks, then returned to the living room. She turned on a lamp, then went for a Diet Coke. Settling herself in the corner of the couch under the reading lamp, she picked up a volume of Sloan's essays on the social contract and the meaning of the ultimate punishment in regard to that contract. She read until she couldn't keep her eyes open, and she turned off lights and slipped into bed next to Jack, hoping for dreamless sleep.

XXX

They were well into the Harlan trial. Danielle Melnick had blindsided them with a perfect rationale for Leslie's firing a gun in a Connecticut robbery, for her continuing with Leon Trapp - by forcing her to fire the gun, he'd made her a criminal in the eyes of the law and removed any hope she had for rescue. Jack was frantic in his search for a countering argument. Then Leslie's mother took the stand, and stained him in front of the jury with a plaintive question: What kind of man are you?

Claire was disturbed by the line of questioning that caused Mrs. Harlan to blurt out that lingering assessment of Jack's character. He'd been delving into Leslie's sexual history, and Claire felt that was inappropriate at best, cruel at its essence. They went to dinner that night, trying to decompress, to maintain their private relationship as distinct from their formal one. Claire could not keep silent on the issue, it struck too close to home.

"Jack, if we were prosecuting Leon Trapp for raping Leslie, you wouldn't bring her sexual history into court." Her voice was thick with emotion, she hated that, but her feelings on the issue were too strong.

He looked at her, aware of the depths hiding under that simple legal assessment. His conscience reared its head. He wanted to take her hand but knew better, knew she'd look at it as manipulation, playing on the effect he could evoke by his physical presence. "You're wondering what kind of man I am, too," he said, gently and sadly. He sat back in his chair. "Want another drink?"

She looked at him, and realized she'd say things she maybe didn't mean if she stayed. "No. I think I'm going to go home." She stood and walked away, leaving him bewildered and a little angry with himself for pushing too hard. He knew she'd go to her apartment, and he ordered another drink, to give himself time to debate following her or leaving her alone to process her feelings.

______xxx_____

Claire let herself in, switching on lamps via the master switch by the door. She locked herself in, then draped her coat over a chair, leaving her purse on top of it. She got out of her clothes and into a gown and robe, then poured a drink. She punched the power button for the CD player, wondering what she'd left in it, and then Donovan began singing. She smiled. Mellow, she thought, is exactly what I need.

She sat on the couch, curling her knees, easing her feet under her bottom. Her frustration with Jack swirled, she tried to still it with a sip of her drink. He's a freaking pit bull sometimes, she thought, he simply won't let go, even if someone beats him over the head to make him release whatever he has between his teeth. He sees nothing but black and white, winning and losing, the game is all that matters. Her head lolled back for a moment as she closed her eyes. Jack stood in her imagination, pleading his case - Your Claireness, he said, haven't I concretely demonstrated my own inner conflict over issues? My last migraine, for example. And haven't I conceded that things aren't always black and white? And imaginary Claire leaned forward, pushed the sleeves of her black robe up her arms, and said You concede very little, you want me to change more than you want to change. I wasn't educated by Jesuits, Jack McCoy, I lack that kind of cold clarity when it comes to certain issues.

Claire opened her eyes and raised her head, glancing around the neat apartment. They divided their time between separate apartments, Jack's presence was clearly felt here. She wondered if he'd follow her, after giving her a decent interval to think. And if he did, she knew how it would go: they'd talk, argue half-heartedly, he'd sit close to her, and she would capitulate for the moment, rest her head against his shoulder, be lulled by his rhythmic breathing. Her rational mind would rebel against that reaction, tell her she should assert herself, even as her body said enough of argument and conflict, just go with the moment, there's always time to mine the issues later. If I don't get out of the office I'm going to lose myself, she thought. I'll make too many compromises, turn myself into an appendage of Jack McCoy instead of functioning as an independent person. I won't be leaving Jack the man, but I'll be escaping Jack as the angel of vengeance. And if I want to remain Claire Kincaid, then I have to get out.

She picked up the framed photo of Jack on her end table. She'd taken it on their last long weekend away, in Vermont, on a skiing jaunt. His red and black parka was in sharp contrast to the white and blue of snow and sky. He held his skis, posing self-consciously, but Claire patiently waited until he relaxed, and caught him at this moment when he made a crack about not knowing he was posing for Picasso. The result was a grinning Jack, sharp contrasts, and a memory of a happy weekend. Away from the office, from the law and the defendants, they were like any other couple, content with each other, free to be themselves. Principle did not intrude, arguments didn't exist, no one needed to stake out a position and try to convert another to their point of view.

Warmed by the memory, she hoped he would come looking for her, for the Claire he loved, be the Jack she loved. We can survive if we no longer have to lead double lives, she thought. She put the picture back and reached for the phone. She dialed his number. She got the machine, and left a message asking him to come over if it wasn't too late when he wandered in. Then she finished her drink, changed the CD, tried to read. She looked at the clock, half an hour had elapsed since she'd left the message. She'd give him another hour, then go to bed.

Twenty minutes later he rapped on the door, she recognized the sound of his signet ring on wood. She got up, double checked through the peephole, and opened the door. He wore a sheepish grin and carried a bottle of scotch. "Come in," she said, stepping back.

"I checked my messages before I left the restaurant," he said. He held the bottle out for her. "My version of a peace offering."

She took it and smiled. "Accepted."

He took off his coat, draped it over hers on the chair near the door, yanked his tie away from his neck. She went to the kitchen, poured drinks, and turned to find him standing there, a pained look on his face.

"I hate arguing, Claire," he said.

"I know. I do, too." She gave him his drink and walked past him, back to the couch. He followed her and sat next to her, but his body was loose, he wasn't trying to put the moves on. "Jack, I'm thinking of leaving the office. It's better for us if I do."

He sipped, then sighed. "I know you've been thinking about it, but I wish you wouldn't. I need you, professionally, you're damn good at what you do, and you generally manage to make me see both sides of an issue."

"Do I? It doesn't look that way from where I stand."

He smiled and leaned forward, touching her forehead with his. "You do. Look, give it three months or so, then revisit the issue. The things that upset you now - Paul Sandig being the poster boy for your crisis of conscience - will have assumed perspective. Never make big decisions in a state of flux." His thumb brushed her cheekbone. "I really think the office would be a lesser place without you."

She sighed. He was right, she shouldn't decide now, she should put all professional concerns away and simply focus on the personal. He still didn't indicate a desire for more than sitting quietly with her, and she was grateful for that, though she was entirely too aware of his body. She leaned against him, nestled into his shoulder. His arm closed around her. She was tired, it felt good to simply sit in his loose embrace with no expectations. He took her glass from her hand and leaned forward to put it on the coffee table, then continued to hold her, silently encouraging her to sleep, to let go of the turmoil and angst. And she did.

XXXX

The meeting with Leslie Harlan, her parents, and Danielle Melnick was tense. Leslie shot herself in the foot on the stand, and the adults in the room were trying to make her see that. It quickly disintegrated into an ugly display of the Harlan family dynamics, Leslie and her mother going at each other. It reminded Claire of her own battles with her mother, it was not pretty. Leslie ended it by maintaining she would not take a plea, she hadn't done anything wrong, and the parties prepared to re-enter court for verdict.

Claire sat close to Jack, as she had throughout the trial, too close for propriety, but elements of this case hit too close to home for her, and he responded with protectiveness. Several times she realized his arm was resting on the bar behind her, as if prepared to shield her, encircle her with that arm when things grew too ugly. She was surprised the judge hadn't said something about it, but he ignored it. She was painfully aware the jury didn't, it seemed the female jurors spent more time looking at the prosecution team than paying attention to proceedings. If it's come to this, she thought, I really need to quit. When I can't maintain my professionalism in my public role, I'm in the wrong job.

The verdict was guilty. Leslie Harlan went into meltdown next to Danielle, who tried to comfort her, reassure her. She and Jack escaped as quickly as possible, only to have Danielle pursue them.

"Jack!" She caught up with them. "A word?"

Jack looked at Claire, then Danielle, and nodded. They slipped into an empty room and Jack closed the door. He put his briefcase on the table and put his hands in his pockets, waiting.

"Jack, this has gone far enough. The exigent circumstances speak volumes." Danielle looked at Claire, and Claire saw perception. "I think Claire understands that better than you. There's a case for leniency, Jack, I know you're not so far gone that you can't feel for this girl's circumstances, or that you won't listen to your girlfriend on the matter." Her body language relaxed as Jack frowned. "I think you listen to her far more than you'll admit," she added, softly, her gaze bouncing between her legal adversaries. "We all saw how you were sitting in court."

Jack's frown deepened. "You don't know what you're talking about, Danielle."

"Don't I? Well, let's not let the personal enter the discussion. She's a kid, Jack, she went through hell, she did what she had to to survive. Surely there's room for mercy in your universal paradigm."

Jack shrugged. "I'll think about it, Danielle."

"That's all I ask, Jack." She looked at Claire again, kindness in her eyes. "I know you get it, Claire."

"It's Jack's call," Claire said.

"But you have input." Danielle tried to smile. "I get the feeling you can hold your own with Jack." She picked up her briefcase. "Just give it some serious thought, Jack, please. You'd want, maybe expect, consideration if you were convicted of, say, inappropriate behavior." She winked. "Substitute Claire for Leslie Harlan and see how you feel. Good day, counselors."

She left first. Jack stared at Claire, uncomfortable with Danielle's message, and unable now to think of Leslie Harlan without seeing Claire in her place, albeit held to account for far lesser crimes. Claire touched his arm, he nodded and they walked out of the conference room, into the stream of people in the corridor. They walked back to Hogan Place, in a light snow. Jack put his arm around Claire in a companionable way, lost in thought. Claire was always taking the position that mercy was a good thing, depending on the circumstances of the crime, something he'd always viewed as a weakness. He was, however, familiar enough with Claire's history with her mother to see the parallels between Leslie and his lover, and he didn't like the images.

It was mid-afternoon when they got back to the office. Jack hung his coat, left his briefcase on the desk, and went to see Adam. Claire went to her office to check whatever had found its way to her desk, tired and wishing she could go home. Jack was closeted with Adam for half an hour, then he was leaning in her doorway, one hand on the frame, his eyes soft and warm as he looked at her. She looked up from the file she'd been reading, another nightmare case they'd have to deal with.

"Adam said we could take the afternoon. Recompense for winning," he added with a slight smile. "He encouraged me to show mercy, too."

Claire stood, responding to his vocal tone, which conveyed more than resignation, it held an awareness she hadn't heard often. She stepped next to him, keeping her voice down. "I'd love to take the afternoon," she said.

"Give me two minutes," he said, and pushed away from the doorframe. She watched him cross the hall and go for his coat and briefcase. She quickly shrugged into her coat, placed the file in her desk and locked the drawer, and met him outside his office door. He had the look of a kid playing hookey from school, a light in his eyes that promised an afternoon where the cares of Hogan Place would be forgotten.

They were quiet until they entered the garage and standing beside Claire's car. "Mine or yours?" she asked, unlocking the door.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "Maybe we should think of consolidating our addresses?"

She sat behind the wheel and looked at him. "Yeah? And how long before personnel catches the address change? And then Adam will 'Have Questions.' I don't know about you, but that's one experience I'd rather not have."

He nodded. "We're adults, this whole thing is ridiculous. I understand the initial rationale behind the prohibition on supervisor/supervisee relationships, but after a point, it becomes more like a schoolyard exercise in control." He bit his bottom lip as he stared straight ahead. "Of course," he said, in soft tones, "given my history with assistants, Adam feels he has a good point." He looked at Claire. "But you're different, this is different." He put his hand on her thigh.

"I hope so," she said, waiting for the light to change. "We've been together less than a year, Jack. How long was it before your other relationships went south?"

His head fell back against the headrest and he sighed. "It was different with each one," he said. "You have to remember, one of them was a marriage."

"I do," she said. "I'm well aware of that fact."

"She was my first assistant," he said. "I was so young." He studied his nails. He'd rarely spoken of his past with her, it felt awkward and uncomfortable. "And we just couldn't make it work." He looked up and realized she was driving to his apartment, it surprised him, he'd assumed she'd go to hers. "And I've never wanted to repeat those painful mistakes."

She nodded. They were soon on Jack's street, and she found a parking spot on the side street just around the corner. They collected their briefcases, Claire locked the little car, and then she took his hand as they walked to his building. He acknowledged the doorman as they passed through the open door, then crossed the lobby to the elevators.

They passed one of his neighbors as they left the elevator, Jack nodded absently, lost in thought and in the ease of Claire's hand in his. He disengaged their hands to unlock the door, and she walked in ahead of him. They hung their coats, put their briefcases away, and as if on autopilot, walked into the bedroom to change from work attire into the casual, in for the day, clothing they both loved.

"We look like refugees from a locker room," Jack said. They did. They wore sweatpants, battleship gray, Claire had a Harvard sweatshirt whereas Jack wore a New York Giants long sleeved tee. He brushed her hair with his hand, curling a few strands behind her ear, then smiled and walked to the kitchen.

He brought two drinks to the couch and sat next to her. She put her feet on the coffee table, and he raised his to rest against them. It was time, he thought, to really talk about his past relationships and how they impacted many aspects of theirs.

"I want you to move in, Claire," he said, "but I realize that will open a large can of worms." He looked at her. She nodded, encouraging him to open up. "My last assistant was named Diana Hawthorne, and after that debacle, Adam hauled my ass into his office. He said he was tired of losing good attorneys to my bedroom tactics, as he called it. He said he wasn't going to tolerate it any longer. He said there was a reason for the rule in the handbook, and he was going to enforce it from here on out. And then he deftly avoided assigning me another female assistant until I asked for you when Ben resigned." He sighed. "Oh, geez, he wasn't subtle about that. At all."

Claire smiled. "He talked to me, too. He seemed very uncomfortable, but let's just say he was firm about it. He told me if I slept with you, he wouldn't hesitate to can me. He said something about your effect on women." She sipped her drink, then rested her free hand on his thigh. "And here we are, waving it under his nose, and he hasn't said a word. To me, anyway."

"We haven't fought yet, you and I." His smile teased. "At least not to the point where we carry it into the office. Sally and I managed to avoid that, too, we were more subtle in our cutting remarks to one another." He raised his glass to his lips. "She resolved our issues by walking out, of my life and the office in one fell swoop. She moved to Jersey for a couple of years, I think, then came back and hung her shingle. You remember Sally?"

"Oh yeah. The Tappan case." Claire's fingers moved absently on Jack's thigh. "I had the feeling she was truly done with you."

He grinned. "Sally doesn't do anything halfway. She's managed to avoid me for the most part, but when we do run across each other, she's definitely a no bullshit woman." He drank, then got up. He went through his CD collection, deftly yanking the one he wanted out of the row. Jimmy Buffet flowed through the speakers as he sat again, taking her hand in his and putting his feet back on the coffee table. "Diana was the real disaster."

"What happened?"

"What didn't is more like it." He turned the bottom of his glass in circles on his left thigh. "It was a long term relationship, we lasted three years. God, three years. She'd been my assistant for a year before we finally crossed the line." He looked at her, silently asking if she was sure she wanted to hear this. She squeezed his hand encouragingly and waited. "It was passionate in its way," he said, awkwardly. "Not like we are, mind you. I never felt like I'd die if I didn't touch her, if I lost her, but it had its moments. God, that was eight years or so ago. Ancient history, but a history with lasting consequences for us."

She released his hand. She snuggled against him, and he put his arm around her, rubbing her elbow. She waited, she'd long wanted to know about these women, for he was right, the chaos they left in their wake threatened to overturn her relationship with not only Jack, but Adam Schiff and her career track.

"Diana and I worked insanely long hours. She never seemed tired, never said she wanted to be anywhere but with me, in the office, or," he kissed her forehead, "here, awkward as that is to say."

"I know I'm not the first woman to be in this apartment, Jack." She finished her drink and leaned sideways to put the glass on the end table. "Just as you know you're not the first man to share my bed." She wiggled next to him again, and he held her elbow in his big hand, rubbing his thumb against the delicate bone in her arm.

"So why did loving you for the first time feel like first time?" He cocked his head to look down at her, drawing her into his heart with his eyes. "Emotional virgins, isn't that what you said?"

She smiled. "Something like that. For me, I can truthfully say I've never been in love before you. I thought I was a time or two, but I know better now. For all intents and purposes, that first time was the first time."

"For a brief time, I thought Diana was the one. When it ended so badly, I decided love wasn't worth the grief. And then you came along." He kissed her, then kissed her forehead. "I knew, absolutely knew, that you were it when Karen Gaines opened fire in that courtroom. For a few minutes I didn't know if you were OK, and that agony told me what my heart had been saying was true, despite my brain's insistence it was just infatuation. Although, in retrospect, I fell in love with you when you stood up to me, your first week in the office. I fought it like hell, Claire." He got up, taking their glasses with him, and came back with fresh drinks.

"I did, too, Jack, as you well know." She sipped scotch, savoring the smokey taste. "My God, I wanted you so much, there were nights when I'd come home and furiously try to scratch that itch." She caressed his thigh again, aware of the bulge so close to her long fingers, wanting to caress that, too, but knowing she might not get this opportunity to hear his story again.

"I never wanted Diana - or Sally or Robin - like that. Diana didn't have your reservations," he added dryly, "she decided it was time, and that was that."

"It must have been good, to last three years."

He looked at the ceiling and drew a deep breath. "Her techniques were polished," he said, and she saw a blush creeping up his neck. "But the emotional connection simply wasn't there. We thought it was, but those illusions were shattered in the end. I couldn't get rid of her fast enough." He looked at her, embarrassed by that revelation.

"So how do we know that we're not an illusion, too?"

"No," he said. "That I do know, without qualification or reservation. I never asked Diana to move in with me."

"And it's because of Diana that I can't."

He nodded. "You can, but yes, it would open a can of worms neither one of us needs."

"Another plus in the 'should I leave the office' column."

Jack smiled. "True. But I don't want you to leave for professional reasons." He swallowed a hefty amount of scotch. "I'm a greedy son of a bitch, I want every minute of every day to be spent with you. I want to spend every free minute making love. I want to prove to Adam that I'm capable of commitment in my relationship with you." He finished his drink. "Diana's in the past, though her melody lingers. It's time to change the record." He put his glass on the coffee table and took hers, then pulled her into his lap. "For the record, I'm crazy in love with you. You make me a better man. If you decide you want to leave the office, OK, as long as you don't leave me."

She rubbed his cheek, his heavy beard gave him a five o'clock shadow earlier than the proverbial five. She loved the way that stubble felt on her smooth skin. "I won't," she said, "although I can imagine Adam's reaction if I left the office to openly be with you." She smiled. "Not a lot of difference in leaving because I broke up with you or because I want to live with you. Either way he loses yet another assistant DA."

"True, and a compelling argument for him to ignore all the lust running rampant under his nose." Jack's eyes danced with good humor.

She put her arms around his neck and rubbed his nose with hers. "Ah, Jack," she said, "the hell with Adam, with the ghost of Diana, with everything. All we really have is now, let's make it count." She kissed him, her tongue making promises her body ached to keep. He gathered her in his arms and stood, smiling. "You mean we'll actually make it to the bed this time?" she said. "Hot damn."

XXXXX

A few days later, Lennie Briscoe and his new partner Rey Curtis made an appointment with Jack, bypassing Claire. Jack cleared his desk, anticipating bad news, though he couldn't imagine what. Maybe Claire was really an escaped axe murderer from Topeka? He grinned, getting coffee from the kitchenette station in the back. Claire was out doing legwork on a new case, he wished there was a way to avoid sending her. It was most likely a death penalty case, a monster named Mickey Scott had raped and beaten a woman to death. It was early days, they wouldn't go to trial for months, but she was interviewing witnesses while memories were fresh. He knew she'd be depressed when she came back, and he spent the minutes waiting for Briscoe and Curtis thinking of ways to alleviate that. He made reservations at their favorite restaurant, deciding they could choose later about a movie or not.

Lennie and Rey arrived on time, and Jack felt a sinking sensation in his stomach when he saw Lennie's face. They sat in the chairs in front of his desk and quietly ruined Jack's day.

"One in a million," Lennie concluded. Jack prosecuted the wrong man some five years ago, sending an innocent man to jail for life for the serial murders of black boys. It was a high profile case. Jack was promoted to EADA because of it, and it was also the end of his three year relationship with Diana Hawthorne. It had all come apart in Ireland, a celebration turned sour by the arguments that erupted. He won a major case and lost a major relationship, all in a few months, he thought, and now the case was back to haunt him.

"My one," he said, still stunned. No mistake, they assured him. This was a disaster, the system failed. He'd failed, he thought, he'd truly screwed the pooch.

Adam called him into the office after the detectives left. He longed for Claire, for her comforting presence, her insights.

"Everybody's calling," Adam said, "from the Times to the Enquirer. What am I supposed to say, Oops?"

Jack sighed, striving for lightness as he said "Tell them your staff is so good they can convict an innocent man."

"You and Diana Hawthorne, two of my best people."

"What can I say, Adam? The evidence was solid - fibers on the murdered boys were consistent with fibers from Dillard's uniform, he was seen arguing with one of the boys shortly before he disappeared, the handwriting on the notes matched Dillard's."

"I've had him moved downstate. He wants to meet. If you're lucky, he'll just want a pound of your flesh."

Jack commiserated with Adam a little longer, then returned to his office. He looked through the glass, at Claire's space, wanting to see her at her desk. Oh God, he thought, this is a fucking disaster. He sat at his desk, picking up the file left by the detectives, hoping to find some rationale for a system gone haywire, but he couldn't focus. A man wrongly convicted, and he'd been the man who convicted him. Had he seen hints it was wrong and just overlooked them in his desire to win, to secure this promotion?

His office door opened and Claire came in, concern written on her face. She pulled off her coat as she crossed the room, dropping it in a visitor's chair. "Jack," she said, "I heard." She sat in her accustomed chair next to the side of his desk. "How are you doing?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

She reached for his hand, holding it, not caring who saw this rare public display of affection during office hours. "OK, we'll find out what happened. I'm sure it wasn't your fault, you followed the evidence."

"I did. Somehow that doesn't make me feel better."

She released his hand and sat back, resting her hand on his desk. "You didn't do it on purpose, Jack."

"No, but try convincing Mr. Dillard of that." He raked his fingers through his hair. "How are you? How did the interviews go?"

"There's no doubt he did it," she said. "It will be months before we're able to go to trial, we can think about it later."

He rubbed his face, exhausted. "Sweet Claire, ever the optimist. I need to get out of here." He closed the Dillard file and put it in a drawer, then tidied his desk. "I really do. I'm going to take the rest of the afternoon, want to join me?"

She hesitated. She had work she should do. Then she saw pain and doubt in his eyes. "Sure," she said, "if you think Adam will agree to both of us taking a hike."

"There's not much I can do here. I'll go tell him."

She stood. "I'll clear my desk. Come get me when you're ready."

Jack left her and crossed the hall to Adam's office. The side door was open, Adam was on the phone. He waved Jack in. "Yes sir, I'll get back to you very soon." He hung up. "The mayor." He shook his head. "You look like someone slammed a two by four on your head." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Another migraine?"

"Not yet, but I need to get out of here, Adam. I feel like I'm drowning. I'm primed to make another mistake. I want to take the afternoon. If something comes up, I can be reached at home."

Adam leaned back and regarded him sympathetically, then he said "Will you be absconding with Ms. Kincaid?" When Jack nodded, Adam sighed. "Don't make a habit of it, Jack."

"No," he replied. "Thank you for understanding."

Adam waved the thanks away. "Get it together, come in tomorrow ready for your meeting with Dillard and his lawyer. They'll be here at nine. And tell Ms. Kincaid that I do not consider the two of you joined at the hip, I do not expect an encore of Florence Nightingale's show. Neither of you requires the presence of the other to do your job."

Jack nodded. "I understand."

"All right, go then. But Jack? You're pushing it, son. Remember what I told you when I agreed to Ms. Kincaid becoming your assistant."

"I do. I'll see you tomorrow, Adam." He left before Adam changed his mind. He took off his work clothes and pulled on jeans and a burgundy sweater, then shrugged into his parka and gathered his loose papers into his briefcase. He turned off the lights, then crossed the hall to Claire's space. She was storing current files in the deep lockable drawer on the left side of her desk. She turned the key and looked up at Jack.

"Everything cool?"

He shrugged. "He chastised me, but let it slide. Are you ready?"

She nodded. They walked to the elevators, ignoring puzzled looks from their colleagues, who recognized Jack's 'done for the day' attire. The elevator opened when Jack pressed the call button, and they stepped in, turning to face more curious faces as the doors closed.

They'd taken Claire's car to work, given the nasty weather. Jack squeezed into the passenger seat as Claire slid under the steering wheel. She drove straight to Jack's, her silence soothing his frazzled nerves. When they got inside, into the warm security of his apartment, he hung his coat and put away his briefcase without realizing he was doing it. He didn't focus until he found himself on his couch, a drink in his hand, and Claire's voice coming from the bedroom.

"I'm sorry," he called. "What did you say?"

She came out, adjusting the waistband of her jeans before pulling her shirttail down. "I said it's going to be all right, please don't stress out about it." She looked at him before turning to the kitchen. She came back with a can of Diet Coke and sat next to him.

Stress, he thought, visualizing professional and personal ruin in the wake of the suit Dillard was sure to file. She's worried another migraine will hit. Well she should, he thought, remembering the last one, how incapacitated he was.

He stretched out on his back, using her lap as a pillow. She looked down at him, then smiled and began stroking his temples, using a light touch. He closed his eyes, allowing her fingers to draw him to the edge of drowsiness. She makes me feel safe, he thought, it's been so long since anyone offered that gift. I'm safe with her, as she is with me, we'll keep the wolves at bay. Her fingers stroked his temple, each fingertip telegraphing the same message: I'll take care of you, I'll bar the door and bandage your wounds, all you have to do is let go and yield the power for a little while. And he fell asleep, gratefully yielding to her, knowing he was safe for that hour at least.

XXXXXX

Diana Hawthorne was on the phone when Claire walked into her office. It was the usual well-appointed corner office of the prestigious partnership, yet Claire was not envious. She listened as Diana cheerfully nailed down a court appearance with a client.

Diana hung up and looked at Claire, her smile not reaching her eyes. "The one thing I hate about private practice," she said, "clients." She gestured to a chair.

"Filling out time sheets kept me away," Claire said, with equal lightness, sitting in the chair.

Diana shuffled through documents cluttering her desk. "I was served in the Dillard case yesterday," she said, locating the blueback and holding it. "Jack's got you on the case? He doesn't trust the city attorney?"

"Call it an internal investigation." Claire shifted in the chair. "I'm just trying to find out what happened."

Diana tossed the blueback aside. "Jack must be frantic, trying to pound out the dents in his integrity." Her gaze weighed Claire.

"The detective I spoke to said he gave you the missing witness statement."

Diana's smile was dismissive. "If he gave it to me, I gave it to Jack."

"He says he never saw it."

Diana rolled her eyes. "What do you expect him to say?"

"I expect him to tell me the truth."

"Oh." Diana focused on Claire, as if she found Claire to be the most gullible person on the planet and the sight was amusing. "Why?" She pushed back from her desk and stood, perching on the corner of the wide, polished symbol of success. After a brief staring contest, Diana shrugged. "Fine. It got lost. It happens."

"You don't believe that," Claire said.

Diana smiled again, a knowing, taunting smile. "Look, Claire?" Her voice hung on the name, as if she wasn't sure that was even the younger woman's name, a deliberately dismissive note. When Claire nodded, the briefest of acknowledgments that yes, Claire was her name, Diana continued. "You know how Jack operates." Claire nodded again, that much they had in common, a working knowledge of Jack's cowboy tactics in pursuit of the win. "I spent four years working with him. And three of those years sleeping with him." There was a triumphant glint in her eyes.

Claire stood, leveling the psychological battleground. "I know," she said, "and maybe it's affecting your judgment."

"And it's not affecting yours?" She cocked her head, a mocking note in her voice. "You are sleeping with him, aren't you?"

Claire wasn't going to answer that. She realized she didn't need to, but she refused to feel diminished by the mocking, taunting knowledge flaring in Diana's pale blue eyes. Whatever had been between Jack and this woman, it died a long time ago, at least on Jack's part, and Claire would not let this woman tarnish what she had with Jack. Anger rippled under Claire's calm demeanor, as she realized this woman would do her best to denigrate Jack's new relationship, to crack Claire's confidence in the sincerity of Jack's professed feelings for her. "Thank you for your time," she said pleasantly, and she left Diana's office.

It was cold, flurries danced in the air, settled in Claire's hair and melted against her face. Claire pulled her gloves on, pausing on the sidewalk outside the firm's doors. So that, she thought, is Diana Hawthorne. Elegant yet brittle, cold and yet bitter, angry and resentful that Jack moved on, that he found Claire. Claire's estimation of her as an opponent fell a notch. She adjusted her purse strap across her chest, then shoved her hands in her coat pockets and started walking. How did Jack end up in a long term relationship with her, she thought, lowering her head as a gust of wind swept the artificial canyon that was a New York sidewalk. She fights dirty, Claire realized, she'll do whatever it takes to discredit an opponent, to win. And who did she learn that from, she asked with a bitter smile, and has it taken root in me?

Jack is up against his polar twin, she decided, Diana's enough like him to blind him to the obvious. What we dislike most in others is usually that which is present in ourselves, and that's Jack's weak spot, I have to counter that blindness. She waited for the light to change and crossed the street, buffeted by crosswinds. Screw this, she thought, halting at the curb and raising her arm. The encounter with Diana left her cold inside, and the elements only accented, emphasized, that interior cold in varying shadings. She got in the cab and gave the Hogan Place address. How could Jack have loved that woman? Claire pulled off her gloves and opened her purse, absently getting cab fare from her wallet while her thoughts bounced all over. What does his choice of Diana Hawthorne say about me? She almost wished she knew Sally Bell, for comparison's sake. It would be too ironic, she mused, if Diana hired Sally to represent her in whatever legal proceedings unfolded from this goat rope. Jack's chickens coming home to roost, she thought, smiling despite her discomfort encountering Diana.

The tenth floor was its usual controlled chaos when she stepped out of the elevator. She signed in with Graham, then stowed her gear before getting coffee. She walked into Jack's office. She sat by his desk, putting the hot cup on the edge and holding her palms against its warmth. Jack's expression was glum. He tossed a pen on an open file and leaned back in his chair, meeting her steady gaze with a curious one of his own.

"How'd it go?" he asked, casually, as if she'd just interviewed a babysitter.

"One day you'll have to explain what attracted you to her," Claire said, then lifted the coffee to her lips. She took a warming sip, then focused on him. "She's lovely, I'll give you that, but she doesn't seem your type."

"What's my type?" He reached for her coffee and sipped, then carefully returned it.

Claire shrugged, and then a wicked glint entered her eyes. "Oh, young, brunette, a product of Smith and Harvard, sexy as hell…"

Jack snorted. "Yeah?" His wide grin vanished as he yanked up the ringing phone. "Yes?" He leaned forward and looked at Claire. "Be right there." He hung up and pulled his tie knot tight against his neck. "Adam wants us."

She got up and followed him across the narrow corridor between the two offices and closed the door. Adam watched them, looking grumpier than usual. Then he focused on Claire. "Report," he barked. She related her conversation with Diana as it directly impacted the Dillard case. "So the detective gave it to Diana, and she gave it to Jack…"

"Actually, she said if she got it from the detective, she gave it to Jack," Claire interrupted.

"Oh, if if if. That makes so much difference." He looked away from Claire and pinned Jack with angry eyes. "Police all over the country planting evidence, public confidence in the system at an all time low, and now it seeps into this office, my office-"

"So do we board up the windows and go home?" Jack said.

Adam's eyes narrowed. "No, we suspend you until we figure out what's going on."

Jack's mouth hung open. Claire glared at Adam, how could he blame Jack for this mess? Suspend him? Before she could say something, Jack said, softly and painfully, "Am I permitted to participate in my own defense?"

"I am not banning you from the building!"

Still stunned, Jack stood and walked out without a backward glance. Claire still glared at Adam then looked away. She followed Jack back to his office and gently shut the door.

Jack stood by his desk, staring blindly down at the blotter. She wished she could put her arms around him, bring him back to himself. A deflated, unsure Jack was an uncomfortable person to be around. It upended her world view of the way things worked, disturbed the constancy she relied on. She settled for standing beside him. He became aware of her and turned.

"Get the files," he said, "every scrap of paper, every photograph. Have the file clerks send it over by unis, I want it yesterday."

She nodded and picked up the receiver with one hand, the laminated card with frequently dialed numbers with the other. She pressed the digits and waited, then ordered the entire Dillard case file - two boxes worth, she was informed - to be couriered by uniform division to Jack McCoy's office. She hung up and waited for the confirmation phone call, then hung up again and took her usual seat. Jack sank into his chair and looked helplessly at Claire.

"We'll go over it," she said, uselessly, unable to think of anything more insightful. Jack nodded. His phone rang, and she leaned over the expanse of desk to grab it. "Kincaid," she said, looking at Jack. His expression was unchanged, he was confused and his self-confidence gone. Lennie was on the other end of the line.

"Claire, records called, so I'm here, sorting through the boxes. There's a lot of stuff here, but it seems to me the written record is most important. Should I sort it out and box it, bring it over?"

She smiled, Lennie was trying to help the best way he knew. Despite his differences with Jack, he didn't want to see McCoy go down. Even cynical detectives need a certain constancy, she thought, a DA's office without Jack McCoy would be an uncertain place. "That would be very helpful, Lennie," she said, the affection in her voice drawing Jack's attention. He watched her as she listened, Lennie said to give him an hour or so. She hung up and met Jack's gaze. "Lennie is going to cull the written record out the pile," she said. "Wasn't he one of the investigating officers?"

"I think so," Jack said, and then he sighed. "God, what a mess."

"We'll clean it up," she said. She tried to sound confident. "I'm going for more coffee, want some?"

He nodded. She got up. She knew he must be thinking of the inclusion of himself, personally, as a defendant in the suit Dillard's lawyer filed, that thoughts of financial ruin loomed large. Won't happen, she thought, pouring coffee. Surely the city will settle with the man, and, she hoped, settle large, for he had truly been a victim of the system that was supposed to protect him and all citizens. Despite the language of the civil suit, Claire knew Jack had not personally selected Dillard as the target, he merely followed the evidence. It was Dillard's bad luck that the evidence pointed at him, with nary an exculpatory sentence fragment found.

Dusk shrouded the city when Lennie hauled a cardboard box into Jack's office. His overcoat was dusted with melting snow, his graying hair flecked with wet, white dots. He put the box on a table pushed against the desk, and pulled off black leather gloves. He rubbed his hands together and looked at the attorneys.

"All I found relating to witness statements, interview records, and so forth," he said. "Is there anything else I can do?"

Claire touched his forearm. "I don't think so, but thank you, Lennie." She glanced at Jack, who stared at the box as if it contained explosives. "We really appreciate it." She accented 'we' hoping Jack would catch it and remember to thank this detective for going beyond duty to help him. Jack stared. Claire squeezed Lennie's arm through his heavy overcoat. "I know it was a lot of work, sorting through all this."

"Glad to help," he said, then pulled his gloves back on. "Call me if you think of anything else you need."

Claire walked him to the door. "I will. Thanks again."

Lennie looked over her head at Jack, who still sat and stared. "Is he going to be OK?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Yeah." She looked over her shoulder at her lover. "It's just overwhelming. He doesn't like making mistakes, and this one's a doozy."

Lennie nodded. "I'll see you later, Counselor. Don't stay too late, it's supposed to snow a lot over the next few hours." He patted Claire's shoulder and walked out of the office.

By eight, Jack and Claire were bordering on exhaustion. They sat on opposite sides of the table, the detritus of Chinese take out scattered on the table's fringe. Open files, stacked files, files yet to be examined covered every available inch of space. Jack, frustrated, got up after Claire told him there was no witness statement in the mountain of pleadings, motions, statements. He paced, slowly, his hands in his pockets, as Claire read yet another statement. His back was to her, his shoulders bowed, when her eyes lit with surprise. She read the statement again.

"Jack. The handwriting expert. What did he testify?"

"That the handwriting on the notes conclusively matched Dillard's," he answered, not turning around.

"But that's not what he says in his initial statement. Why did he change his mind?"

Jack turned, still not looking at Claire. "I don't know. What did he say?"

"That he could not say conclusively that the writing matched. Why did he change his mind?" she asked again.

Jack looked at her, realization dawning on his tired, drained face. "He was Diana's witness," he said. The pieces fell into place. "Oh, damn her," he muttered. He crossed the space between them in three steps. He slid onto the chair and took the statement from Claire's unresisting hand. He read it for himself, then lowered it to the table. "Oh my God," he said, slowly, unwilling to accept the obvious. "My God. She crossed the line."

XXXXXXX

After meeting with the handwriting expert, with Claire, and having his suspicions turned into facts, Jack sent Claire back to the office. He wanted to walk, to think, to understand why Diana did this terrible thing. He walked, searching for a reason, an explanation, and none was forthcoming. He found himself on the street in front of Diana's office building, an obstacle in the flow of human traffic leaving work for the day, waiting. Diana never liked working late, he knew, he was sure she'd be out before much longer.

And there she was, in a mink coat, not a hair out of place, a hint of worry to be found on her arrogant face. "Diana!" he called.

She stopped, and a knowing smile broke across her face. "Jack." She looked him over. "I begged you to get rid of that coat eight years ago." She approached him.

"You concealed evidence. You suborned perjury. I've been suspended. Two more boys are dead."

Her smile mocked him. "Brilliant opening statement. Claire must be learning a lot from you."

His anger erupted at the mention of Claire. His voice rose as he accused her of crossing a line he never came near, and she responded in kind, countering his accusations with her own. Her rage, directed at him, felt like a blow, and he saw how much she hated him. "I did exactly what you wanted me to," she finished, almost snarling, and she walked away, leaving him as bewildered as he'd been three hours ago.

He went home. It was getting dark, and he turned on lamps before going to his bedroom. He changed into his "comfort clothes" - his familiar sweatpants and a tee shirt - then went to the liquor. He poured a large scotch, then stood by the window, looking down at the street. Images of Diana flashed in his mind. Diana, naked and stretching in the tangle of sheets, a sly smile on her face. Diana cross-examining a witness. Diana on the street in a small Irish village. Jack closed his eyes, letting his forehead rest on the cold glass. How had he ever thought he cared for her?

He straightened up and sipped his drink, then walked to the couch. Sprawling on it, he replaced the random slides of life with Diana with more current images, Claire filling his thoughts. How could he explain this to her? Women always want explanations, he thought. As if talking something to death would resolve anything. His natural reaction was to grind Diana into the ground, legally speaking, but Claire would want to mine it, examine all its nuances, his history, motives. Jack sighed, then raised his glass. He downed a hefty gulp of his favorite drink, immunizing himself as it were, against Claire's questions, the hurt he'd see in her eyes, the doubt. Life seemed very complicated, and Jack didn't like complications. He liked life divided neatly into categories, right and wrong, he'd leave the shades of gray to the Jesuits.

His phone rang. He snatched the receiver from its cradle and snarled "Hello."

"Jack. You're home."

"It looks that way," he said, relaxing as Claire's voice washed over him. "You're still at the office?"

"On my way out. Want me to bring dinner?"

He drank. "Yeah, sure, whatever you want." He wasn't interested in food, it couldn't numb feeling.

"I'll be there soon," she promised, and Jack hung up, then stared at the front door. The receiver dangled from his hand, and he jumped when it beeped its "off the hook" signal. He replaced it in the cradle, then drank again. He wondered if there was enough scotch in the city to drown feeling. Diana has to go down, he thought, she can't skate this. If I don't crush her, I'll be derelict in my duty, I'll be a lesser man. He got up to top off his drink. He looked at the phone, itching to call her, to describe in minute detail all the legal screwing he would dole out, he wanted to hear Diana admit her evil and plead for leniency. Jack snorted. That was Claire's department, he thought, Claire was good at parsing the need for leniency from the facts of a case. He bit his lip, that was unfair and he felt the sting of a pricked conscience. It was that gentleness, that ability to walk in another's shoes, that allowed Jack to feel human, it was a quality he needed.

I need her, he thought, hard as that is to admit. At first, he'd wanted to mold Claire into his image, to easily dominate her as he had so many others, and when he met resistance, he was attracted to it. And by the time he realized no one would mold Claire Kincaid into a foreign image he was in love. Jack's in love, his mind taunted, in a schoolyard sing-song. Jack and Claire sitting in a tree…he got up, nearly dropping his empty glass. He refilled it. Do your thing, he said to the bottle as he poured, bring on the numbness, eradicate doubt and fear and replace it with swaggering confidence. Claire would see through that, he thought, flipping through his CD collection. She always sees through my poses, my masks. And she doesn't think less of me for needing false armor. She accepts me as I am, nobody accepts me as I am, women always want to change me. Except Claire. He chose the Woodstock soundtrack, then sat on the couch as the music began.

Wait, he thought, Claire does want to change one aspect of my personality, she wants me to acknowledge my feelings. She has no idea that Pandora's box lurks under this denial of emotion, she's clueless about the anger, the impotence I feel when I think of my father, or of my mother, cowering under his brutal tirades. I couldn't protect her, I can't protect anyone, let alone Claire, all I have is the big stick of the law. As long as I wield that stick, I can intimidate anyone into submission, I can protect those I care for. I'm a lesser man without that weapon, and Claire would find that man contemptuous, she can never see that weakness. She'll leave me if she does.

The door opened and Claire walked in, balancing a pizza box with her purse and briefcase and keys. He got up to take some of the load. She smiled gratefully, and Jack was stung by the innocence of that smile. Don't adore me, he thought, I will shatter you if you do. He took the pizza to the kitchen while she hung her coat, put her briefcase away. He heard her in the bedroom as he got plates from the cupboard, the opening and closing of drawers, the squeak of bedsprings. He smiled, putting the plates and napkins on the table, visualizing Claire on the edge of the bed, removing her shoes, pulling on thick, soft socks. Her feet were always cold, he thought, it was somehow endearing.

She joined him in the kitchen. "I picked these up," she said, offering a photo envelope before opening the refrigerator. Jack walked to the couch with the pictures, sipping his drink before pulling a stack of photographs out for examination. Claire sat beside him, looking over his shoulder.

They were the photographs taken a few weeks ago, when they'd gone to Prince Edward Island for a weekend. Most of them were of Claire. Jack grinned, wondering why he'd gone on a photographic binge, snapping her every time she turned around. Some of them were quite good, randomly so, but good nonetheless. He studied one of Claire kneeling by a large black dog, one hand on his shoulder, they appeared to be communing with each other in the late afternoon light. She loves animals, he thought, those moments with the dog had spawned a fifteen minute dissertation on the future she envisioned, with a house and a dog and a kid or two. He moved on to the next one. It was of the two of them together, on the porch of the bed and breakfast, noses red from the cold, large steaming mugs of tea in their hands. The bed and breakfast owner took that one, he'd managed to capture their easy intimacy, the relaxed body language, their flushed happiness at being away from the city and with each other. He lingered over this one. He felt Claire's hand on his thigh, heard her swallow Diet Coke, but his mind was back on that porch, the steps flanked by snow banks, the setting sun highlighting Claire's merry eyes, Jack's relaxed smile.

"I'm framing this one," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You're so beautiful."

"Optical illusion," she answered.

He laughed, then put that picture aside. He went through the rest of the stack without lingering, then put them back in the envelope and stood, reaching for her hand. They went to the table. Jack opened the box and Claire's hand snaked in ahead of his. She grinned as she bit into the slice, and he smiled back, Claire the Merry Gremlin had come out to play and it was exactly what he needed. He grabbed her wrist and pulled the slice into biting range. She slapped playfully at his shoulder as he chewed, rolling her eyes. Jack got his own slice, then they settled into eating in a companionable silence, who needed words when her eyes told him all he needed to know. She was with him in every sense that mattered, together they would take on Diana Hawthorne and win.

XXXXXXX

They went in to the office early. Diana was to testify this morning, and Jack wanted Claire thoroughly prepared for whatever Diana might say. Adam's warning - she'll say anything, do anything - kept popping into his mind, and he wanted Claire ready for that abstract 'anything.'

There were some sticky moments as the trial progressed, moments that left Jack distinctly uncomfortable. He should have told Claire he took Diana to Ireland, he thought, she'd always wanted to go abroad with him and the knowledge that he'd taken another woman bothered her. They'd gotten through that, Claire refused to make it a big deal, but Jack was aware that the slight lingered. And so he told Claire everything after that, details he knew she didn't really want to hear, but he would not hold back a single thing from her. Better to confront some sliver of knowledge, of intimacy between Jack and Diana in the privacy of home or office rather than open court, he decided. He'd met Claire's eyes when Diana's attorney asked him how he celebrated his promotion, seen the surprise and pain in those soft brown eyes when he said 'I took her to Ireland.' She'd looked down at the table, an unremarkable gesture to the casual observer, but he knew she was concealing her emotions, knew she was hurt that he'd kept that fact from her out of some misguided notion of shielding her feelings.

"I'm ready," Claire said, stacking documents. "I'm not going to let her shift it all on you."

Jack pulled a tie off a hanger and threaded it under his collar. "I truly did not want her to do something like this, I would have stopped it if I'd known."

"I know, Jack." She slid the documents into her soft-sided briefcase. "I'm not letting her off the hook." She smiled. "So much for the doctrine of not letting it get personal."

He knotted his tie. "Oh, it's very personal."

She stood, reaching for her coat hanging on the newel post in the corner. "Indeed." She was surprised at how personal it was. She was the only thing standing between Jack and professional disgrace, if Diana skated on these charges, Jack would ever more be regarded as a district attorney who cared only for winning, who would cross any ethical line in pursuit of victory. And a district attorney who was not respected was useless. All his work would be double-checked, second-guessed, examined under the microscope of public perception. Claire was not going to allow this. This was her moment, her chance to stand up for Jack as he'd done for her. She knew she and Diana had some common ground, as Jack's lovers they knew more about each other than they'd care to admit, and Claire had to turn that strange intimacy to her advantage.

They walked to the courthouse together. Jack was quiet, preoccupied, and Claire was running through her basic questions, anticipating various tangents peeling off those questions. Her strategy involved hanging most of her questions on Diana's status as Jack's lover, that was ground she knew well - the pressures of work and secrecy, behaving as if the relationship was not an open secret, dealing with Jack's alpha male tendencies, the vulnerable moments when it was just the two of them. She wondered how much of Diana's personality was subsumed in Jack's, how much of herself she surrendered to share his bed.

In examining Diana, Claire knew she was examining herself, but she was comfortable with that. She knew where her personal boundaries were, where she would compromise and where she drew the line. Jack butted against those lines sometimes, and sometimes they whacked each other with equal ferocity, such as the capital punishment issue, but Claire knew she still held to her core convictions even when the power structure dictated she toe the opposite line. Jack never tried to change that, she thought, automatically taking his arm as they crossed an icy street. I get the feeling Diana became whatever Jack wanted, that ethics and standards were fluid.

As they climbed the courthouse steps, Claire still held his arm, lost in internal arguments and counter-motions. Jack didn't to notice. It was a natural thing, holding someone for support on slick, icy steps, and when Claire looked up to see Bart Wagstaff, Diana's attorney, looking down at them from the wide porch, she was puzzled by his intensity. Then, realizing Wagstaff was extrapolating from a simple need for physical support in unsteady conditions, she released Jack's arm. When she did, his hand went to her back, still supporting and guiding her on treacherous ground. They reached the porch and stopped in front of opposing counsel.

"Mr. Wagstaff," Claire said.

"Ms. Kincaid." He smirked. "Nice to see the pot acknowledging the kettle this fine winter morning."

Claire shrugged and looked at Jack, who shrugged back. "Whatever that means," she said, and she moved to pass him.

"See you inside," he said, and he turned, heading for the judge's entrance.

"What was that about?" Jack asked, distracted.

Claire sighed and they walked toward the main entrance. "I think he was commenting on my attachment to your arm. He was being snide." They passed through the line for court personnel and turned left, walking to the courtroom at the end of the hall.

"You think? I'd hope he had better things to think about." Jack held the door for her. He stopped at the first row of the gallery while Claire reached for the bar gate. "Kick ass," he whispered.

"Count on it," she said. She felt the urge to kiss his cheek, to let him know this little dust-up meant nothing in the bigger scheme of things. Instead, she opened the gate and took her seat at the prosecution table, wondering where her second chair was.

Diana Hawthorne was not a formidable witness. She was too arrogant, too certain of her superiority over this young ADA who was the latest in a line of ADAs who shared Jack McCoy's bed. And then she gave Claire a surprise opening, admitting she wanted Jack's gratitude and affection. Claire homed in, her last line of argument devastating in its quiet assessment - "and like all good gifts, it was a surprise." Jack was vindicated, all she wanted, and she walked back to the prosecution table with her gaze holding Jack's.

Diana was the only witness that morning. The judge set the time for the afternoon session and they broke for a long lunch. When closing arguments began, Claire made a quiet appeal based on the facts, emphasizing Diana's crime and downplaying the damaged reputation of the man in the gallery behind her. When they filed out for the day, Claire followed Jack to the office.

She had a message to meet the detectives in the two seven on the Mickey Scott case, and she sighed. She did not want this case, but she couldn't avoid it. She told Jack she had her pager, beep if he needed her, then trudged over to the precinct that sometimes felt like a second home.

Jack turned on lamps and tried to occupy himself reading reports on Michael Calder, a scumbag he thought they'd locked up months ago, but the man had managed to secure a new trial. This one, he thought, is going to be a hard one. Claire couldn't stand being in the same room with Calder, and Jack really couldn't blame her.

His office door opened. He looked up at Diana, and fought the urge to throw her out.

"The smell of this place," she said, leaning against the door frame.

"I shouldn't be talking to you, Diana."

"Well, I think we broke a lot of rules," she said, then she moved fluidly to the couch and sat, composed and controlled. "She's a smart girl, Jack. I don't think I realized until today why I did it."

"That you committed a heinous crime?"

"That I did it for you. For my man." Her self-mocking was almost cruel. "I didn't think women like me did things like that."

"I never asked you to, Diana." He stood, rooted to his spot under his bookshelves, afraid to move for fear of what motion would unleash.

"No, but I thought you'd be grateful."

"You didn't need my gratitude."

"Oh but I did. And look at us now."

He sighed. He'd once felt a kind of passion for this woman, and it rose up, mutated into a kind of pity. She had done a terrible thing, because they had a personal relationship, perhaps he did share some of the blame. And then he saw Claire in his mind, smiling at him from her pillow as he looked down at her, her hand coming up to cup his jaw. No, he said firmly to his conscience, Claire would never commit such an act out of love for me. She would never confuse justice with personal gain. Diana did what she did without any encouragement from me, she did it on her own and I am not responsible for her moral disintegration. Claire loves me but Claire would never lie, never manipulate the system to gain something for me, no matter how much she thought I wanted it. And what I feel for Claire is so different from what I felt for this woman. He sighed again, then moved to his desk, keeping as much space as possible between himself and Diana. "Diana," he said.

She waved her hand, dismissing whatever he would say. "She really has you, Jack. I see the way you look at her, the way she glances at you when she thinks no one's looking. What does she have that I lacked?" She studied her fingernails, refusing to meet his gaze, to see whatever truth he could tell.

"Integrity," Jack offered. "Sensitivity. She would never manipulate evidence, never send an innocent man to jail so that I could move into this office."

"Wouldn't she?" Diana looked up at last. "I hope you never have cause to find out." Her gaze moved past him to the windows, to the darkness outside. "Bart told me he saw you on the steps this morning, that she held your arm, such an innocent gesture that speaks volumes." She looked at him again. "So now you know what love feels like, Jack."

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"And it leaves you confused, doesn't it? How far would you go to protect her, Jack, to get for her whatever she wants so she won't leave you? What would you do if she was threatened? Or if she wanted something so badly and the only way you could get it was to manipulate events? Two points on an endless spectrum of the thing we call love." She smiled, mocking him now. "How I'd love to see Jack McCoy on the skids, dumped by his true love. And it will happen, Jack, she's so young, one day some young stud is going to come along and replace you. Like attracts like, you know. Youth calls to youth. She's going to want to have a baby, then what will you do?" She got up. "Call me when that happens, Jack, I've been there, I know how it feels, I'll help you through it." She turned and walked out of his office, leaving Jack staring at the space she'd just occupied.

Shaking his head, he reached for the bottom left drawer. He pulled it open and looked. A wrapped package sat atop his bottle of scotch, and he picked it up. He'd forgotten, he meant to put it on his desk. He tore the brown protective paper and looked at the framed picture of himself and Claire, on the porch of the bed and breakfast. He set it on his desk, then balled up the paper and tossed it in the trash. He tried the picture in a couple of different spots, then settled on placing it just right of center above the blotter. Then he got the bottle and poured a drink. He leaned back in his chair and studied the picture in its silver frame. Nothing like making a statement, he thought, knowing he was announcing his relationship with Claire to the world by putting that picture on his desk. That's the difference, he realized, I love her and I don't care who knows it, like it's been a secret anyway. I'm willing to face anyone who has a problem with it. And no woman has been worth that risk before.

He looked up as his door rattled and Claire came in. Her face was flushed from the cold, her coat buttoned and her scarf tight around her neck. Your Claireness, he thought, amused, you really hate the cold. She put her briefcase on the couch and unbuttoned her coat, unwound the scarf.

"God, it's cold," she said. She hung her outer garments, then came to his desk. She saw the picture, picked it up, then looked from it to Jack. "Declaration?"

He reached up and took the picture from her, replacing it on his desk. "Yep. That OK with you?"

She rubbed her red nose, then smiled. "Yeah. It's fine with me. It's not like we're going to shock anyone."

He stood and rubbed her arms, trying to warm her. "Indeed we're not," he said. "Diana came by."

"Yeah?" She moved around him, retrieving the scotch bottle. She found her glass in the drawer and poured, offering the bottle to him when she finished. He took it and topped off his drink. "What did she say?"

"She acknowledged her crime. And she made a point of predicting you'd leave me one day for some young stud."

Claire shrugged. "Yeah, right, like I want to housebreak another male." Her smile broke across her attempt at a serious mask. "You're in no danger of being replaced."

He stood in front of her and cupped the back of her neck, gently pulling her head forward. He kissed it, then released her, perching on the edge of his desk. "Want to go out, or should we pick up take-out?"

Claire sipped, and in that moment, Jack saw the exhausted lines in her face, the momentary dullness of her expressive brown eyes. "I think I'd rather have take-out," she said, softly. "It's been a long day."

"It has." He reached over and took her hand, hooking her index finger with his. "Whatever you want, Claire."

She smiled over the rim of her glass. "What I want would get us both canned on the spot." The warmth and good humor returned to her eyes. "Let's go home, old pal."

He stood up, just as Adam came in through his entrance. "You're still here," he said, "good. I heard from Diana Hawthorne's lawyer." His eyes fell on the picture on Jack's desk, and he frowned for a moment. "So I guess he has a point," he added, picking it up. "He's ready to deal, and he wants it to go nice and easy, based, as he says, on the basic conflict of interest of the current lover prosecuting the ex." He put the picture back. "Nice picture of you," he added.

Claire looked at Jack and then at Adam. "OK," she said, "I can go nice and easy. What do you recommend?"

"Your call, Claire." He glanced from one to the other. "I think you can make that decision without letting the personal interfere with the interests of justice. Go home, before the post office starts delivering your mail here." He turned and left them.

Jack drained his glass and left it on his desk. "He's right, let's get out of here." He got his parka from the rack in the corner. "We'll grab some Chinese on the way home."

She nodded and grabbed her coat. "You're buying," she said, buttoning the last button and picking up her briefcase. "To the victor and all that."

He grinned. "Absolutely," he said, "whatever you want."

XXXXXXX

Friday afternoon. Claire had loved that phrase since her school days, when a weekend stretched before her, filled with possibilities. Adam gave them the afternoon, as a reward for dealing Diana Hawthorne, and as compensation for the hours they'd be working on the Calder retrial. This was her first real moment with Jack since they'd come into work, and they walked with Adam down the steps to the sidewalk. He was grumpy and Claire wanted to escape before he changed his mind about a few hours off.

"I have motions on my desk from every defendant she ever tried," he said.

"I'll go through them," Jack said.

"You bet you will," Adam snarled, then he turned away from them, heading for his car and driver waiting at the curb.

"So I gave her sixth months, and she surrenders her license," Claire said as they continued to the sidewalk.

"You would have won, Claire. You didn't have to take the deal."

They were at the crosswalk. "I know, but that's what I thought you wanted me to do." Jack stared at her, and then she grinned, playfully slapping his shoulder before stepping into the street. He put his arm around her, shaking his head. Hearing Diana's excuse, however playfully, coming from Claire was disconcerting, and he reminded himself that she would never do such a thing.

They stopped to shop for dinner, then took a cab to her apartment. She changed into jeans and a sweater while Jack put the groceries away, then joined him on the couch to contemplate the free hours before them. "Why do I feel like a kid playing hookey?" she said, rubbing her foot against Jack's. "And man, it feels good." She grinned.

"It does." He put his arm around her and held her. "We could go to the movies," he offered.

She considered it. "Or we could walk in the park, get some exercise at last. It's still sunny."

They opted to go to the park, to stay true to the childlike feeling of freedom while the rest of the world worked. Jack bought coffees from the vendor at the park entrance, and they ambled down the path, enjoying the unusual warmth of the afternoon and the flow of people reveling in it. They passed a skateboard area, and paused to watch kids attempt the various ramps and obstacles. And then Jack noticed a blonde woman sitting on a bench, watching the kids. She seemed focused on one boy. Claire followed his stare, recognizing Sally Bell and following Jack's sightline from her to the kid. He was maybe ten at best, and when Claire looked at him, she felt like someone hit her with a brick.

"He's a picture of you," she whispered.

END


End file.
